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MARIA  LOUISE  I 


I 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Marion  Randall  Parsons 


/vwti*   <7£ 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


a  novel 


BY 

MARIA  LOUISE  POOL 

AUTHOR   OF    "MRS.   GERALD"    "  DALLY  " 
"ROWENY    IN    BOSTON"    ETC. 


NEW      YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1896 


By  MARIA  LOUISE  POOL. 


AGAINST    HUMAN    NAT- 
URE. 

OUT  OF  STEP. 

THE  TWO  SALOMES. 


KATHARINE  NORTH. 

MRS.  KEATS  BRADFORD. 

DALLY. 

ROWENY  IN  BOSTON. 


Post  Svo,  Cloth,  Or?iamental,  $i  25  each. 
MRS.  GERALD.     Ill'd.     $1  50. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 


Copyright,  1896,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 
All  rights  reserved. 


GIFT 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  Gray  Colt i 

II.  "What's  an  Understudy?" 21 

III.  Miss  Cobb  Relates 41 

IV.  Newspaper  Paragraphs •    .    .    .  59 

V.  "  To  You,  My  Love,  to  You  " 76 

VI.  "  There's  My  Nephew,  Vane  " 89 

VII.  Broken  Bones 106 

VIII.  Before  Witnesses 122 

IX.  By  the  Unquenchable  Sea 140 

X.  A  Stranger 158 

XI.  "You've  no  Idea  How  Persistent  I  Am"    .  177 
XII.  "Long  Live  the  King!" 196 

XIII.  "Farewell,  Leonora" 214 

XIV.  On  the  Train 233 

XV.  Another  Chance 251 

XVI.  Change 271 

XVII.  The  Whole  Story 289 

XVIII.  To  Learn  to  Sing 309 


MS16G5S 


IN   THE   FIRST   PERSON 


i 

A    GRAY    COLT 


"I  should  think  by  the  looks  out  there  in  the  west  that 
there  was  a  dretful  tempest  comin'  up.'" 

Aunt  Lowizy  was  hurrying  into  the  kitchen  with  a  hot 
flat-iron  in  her  hand.  This  iron  she  had  taken  from  a  ker- 
osene stove  that  stood  lighted  on  a  table  in  the  "  unfin- 
ished part,"  where  we  did  most  of  our  housework  in  the 
summer.  It  saved  labor,  and  gave  us  an  opportunity  to 
stay  in  the  back  of  the  house,  and  keep  the  front  rooms 
more  than  usually  shut  up  and  darkened. 

My  mother  heard  Aunt  Lowizy's  words,  and  went  with 
floury  hands  and  an  anxious  face  to  the  porch,  where  she 
gazed  at  the  blue-black  mass  of  cloud  which  was  heaping 
itself  up,  and  on  whose  bosom  the  lightning  was  darting 
in  dazzling  crinkles,  followed  after  a  moment  by  a  rolling 
sound  of  thunder. 

It  was  so  hot  that,  as  father  said,  "jest  to  stand  still  and 
think  made  a  feller  sweat."  The  leaves  on  the  maples  in 
our  yard  did  not  move,  but  the  poplars  showed  the  white 
under-side  of  their  foliage  even  without  any  wind  :  and  that 
was  a  sign  of  rain. 


2  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  had  read  a  little  poem  about  the  poplar's  leaves,  and  I 
felt  like  quoting  it,  but  I  held  my  tongue. 

The  tree-toads  were  making  their  bubbling  noise ;  there 
was  one  on  the  side  of  our  chopping-block  under  the  brakes. 
He  was  near  enough  for  me  to  see  his  little  gray  shape  as  I 
stood  behind  mother  on  the  porch. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we  did  ketch  some  of  it  any- 
way," said  mother,  in  her  subdued  voice,  "  though  most- 
ly, you  know,  Lowizy,  they  foller  the  river.  But  we  do 
need  rain  amazingly.  I'm  glad  the  house  ain't  all  het  up. 
I  can't  bear  to  have  the  house  het  up  when  there's  a  tem- 
pest." 

Mother  hurried  back  to  the  buttery.  She  was  kneading 
dough  for  the  second  rising  for  bread,  and  we  intended  to 
have  "  riz  biscuit "  for  supper.  We  held  that  riz  biscuit 
were  in  every  way  better  than  the  same  thing  made  with 
baking-powder. 

She  called  to  me  through  the  open  door  of  the  pantry: 

"  Sis,  I  wish  you'd  go  out  'n'  look  'n'  see  if  your  father's 
in  sight.  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  grain  if  he  got  caught.  It's 
jest  like  him  to  get  caught.  He'll  stay  down  to  the  store 
talkin'  'bout  his  colt  till  all  is  blue  V  green." 

I  sauntered  down  the  long  yard  to  the  road.  The  grass 
was  already  ankle-high  in  this  yard,  and  the  dandelions  had 
gone  to  seed  and  blown  away ;  but  some  of  their  tall  steins 
were  standing.  I  pulled  one  of  these  steins,  split  it  down 
the  length  of  it,  and  put  it  in  my  mouth  to  make  a  curl  of. 
Do  you  know  the  bitter  taste  of  the  cool  stem  ?  Does 
the  taste  recall  days  of  hot  sky  and  long,  long  hours  when 
you  felt  as  if  life  were  made  for  you  to  drink  of,  as  I  used 
to  think  the  gods  drank  nectar  on  Olympus? 

It  wasn't  a  great  while  since  I  had  learned  that  there  had 
been  gods,  and  where  they  lived  when,  as  we  say,  they  were 


A    GRAY    COLT  3 

at  home.  Being  new  acquaintances,  I  thought  much  of 
them,  and  I  would  refer  to  them  occasionally,  arousing  the 
great  interest  and  admiration  of  mother  and  Aunt  Lowizy. 
For  I  had  had  "advantages." 

That's  the  phrase  which  was  used  in  speaking  of  any  girl 
who  had  been  sent  away  to  school. 

The  neighbors  wondered  why  Lemuel  Armstrong  had 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  give  his  daughter  "  advantages." 

"What's  your  notion,  Lem,  anyway?"  they  asked  him. 

He  used  to  look  at  them  and  wink,  and  answer  that  he 
believed  "  in  training  colts,  'n'  why  shouldn't  he  have  his 
gal  trained  ?  And  if  they  didn't  know  up  to  Mount  Holyoke 
how  to  file  down  and  polish  up  a  gal,  he  guessed  they  didn't 
know  anywhere.  He  said  he  called  his  Billy  halter-broke, 
'n'  now  he  guessed  experience  would  have  to  make  her  run 
in  harness.  Experience  'd  make  the  very  Old  Harry  run 
in  harness,  single  or  double." 

Then  he  would  burst  into  one  of  his  laughs  that  sounded 
so  whole-hearted  and  honest. 

I  am  Billy.  Father  began  calling  me  that  as  early  as  I 
can  remember,  and  mother  and  Aunt  Lowizy  fell  into  the 
habit,  though  they  occasionally  tried  to  say  "  Miny." 

I  suppose  it  is  rather  a  dreadful  thing  for  a  girl  over 
twenty  years  old  to  think  of  herself  always  as  Billy. 

Our  minister  and  his  wife  invariably  say  "  Wilhelmina," 
and  I  suppose  it  is  that  which  makes  me  feel  so  respectable 
when  I  am  with  them.  But  somehow  I  don't  exactly  enjoy 
feeling  respectable.  It's  something  like  wearing  a  pair  of 
tight  corsets.  You  feel  a  great  deal  better  when  you  have 
taken  them  off.  And  there's  the  Venus  de'  Medici — our 
physiology  teacher  used  to  tell  us  about  the  Venus  and 
that  she  was  a  beautiful  example  of  the  uncorseted  female 
form.     But  the  physiology  teacher  was  the   tightest -Iaeed 


4  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

woman  in  the  whole  seminary — it  wasn't  a  college  then. 
So  we  didn't  swallow  much  that  she  said,  unless  we  felt 
good  enough  to  die — which  wasn't  often. 

We  didn't  mean  to  be  so  good  that  we  should  have  to 
die  young. 

Father  came  up  when  I  graduated.  I  felt  kind  of  queer 
when  he  talked  with  some  of  my  chums,  and  called  me 
"  Billy."  I  was  Wilhelmina  up  there.  Only  my  clearest 
friend,  who  meant  to  go  to  Germany,  and  was  giving  a 
good  deal  of  time  to  German,  she  would  insist  upon  saying 
"Vilhelm"  always;  and  I  sign  my  letters  to  her  invariably 
"  Vilhelm." 

Though  I  wished  father  could  use  a  little  grammar  when 
he  talked,  and  that  he  didn't  wink  so  often,  I  was  bound  not 
to  show  that  I  wished  it.  I  took  him  everywhere  ;  and  I 
had  a  chance  to  introduce  him  to  the  principal,  lie  shook 
hands  with  her,  and  swung  her  hand  round  so  hard  that 
she  grew  red  in  the  face,  trying  not  to  have  vertigo,  I  suppose. 
But  she  would  keep  on  smiling;  I  just  loved  her  for  that, 
and  for  being  so  sweet  and  unsurprised  when  pa  said  : 

"Now,  don't  you  think  my  Billy  is  as  promisin'  a  little 
filly  's  you  ever  snapped  a  whip  at  ?" 

"But  we  don't  snap  whips  here,  Mr.  Armstrong,"  she 
replied,  with  one  of  her  best  little  laughs,  as  if  father  were 
an  ex-governor  who  had  just  made  a  joke. 

Then  father  winked,  and  burst  into  an  enormous  laugh 
which  made  everybody  in  the  room  turn  and  look  our 
way. 

But  I  held  my  head  up,  though  my  face  was  on  fire ;  and 
I  took  pa's  arm  and  walked  him  out  as  soon  as  I  could. 

When  I  had  him  by  myself  I  thought  for  a  moment  I 
would  ask  if  he  would,  as  a  great  favor  to  me,  stop  doing 
that  perfectly  awful  wink.      But  when  I  examined   his  face 


A    GRAY    COLT  5 

it  all  came  over  me  as  it  had  never  done  before  that  his 
was  precisely  the  kind  of  a  face  that  had  got  to  wink.  It 
wouldn't  do  any  good  to  try  to  prevent  him,  for  the  wink 
was  in  his  soul.     So  was  his  great  laugh. 

I  heard  somebody  in  our  village  say  once  that  he  sup- 
posed "  Lem  Armstrong's  laugh  had  sold  more  horses  than 
you  could  shake  a  stick  at.  A  feller  jest  wanted  to  buy  a 
horse  when  he  heard  that  laugh." 

I  was  mad — indignant,  I  mean — when  I  heard  that.  But 
I  thought  it  over,  and  somehow  it  seemed  to  me  there  was 
truth  in  those  words,  though  I  didn't  understand. 

I  told  mother,  and  I  shall  never  forget  how  disturbed  she 
looked.     What  she  said  was  : 

;- We  all  have  our  peculiarities." 

It  was  a  year  ago  since  I  graduated — I  had  been  at  home 
all  that  time.  People  seemed  to  think  I  ought  to  get  a 
school  to  teach  somewhere,  but  I  told  father,  to  begin  with, 
when  he  began  to  talk  of  sending  me  to  South  Hadley.  that 
I  wasn't  going  to  be  a  school-teacher.  I  would  rather  work 
in  some  factory.  He  said  he  guessed  there  wasn't  any 
hurry  about  my  earning  anything.  So  I  was  at  home,  and 
helped  mother  and  Aunt  Lowizy;  but  I  didn't  work  very 
hard.  I  liked  to  sit  out  of  doors  as  soon  as  it  became  mild. 
I  liked  to  sit  and  let  the  sun  shine  on  me — just  loaf.  Aunt 
Lowizy  said  I  was  the  biggest  loafer  she  ever  saw. 

Sometimes  I  would  repent  and  set  to  work  hard,  and 
make  blisters  on  my  hands. 

To-day  I  hadn't  done  much.  I  had  taken  the  scythe  and 
mowed  down  the  grass  between  the  two  maples,  and  put  a 
barrel-stave  hammock  there.  I  had  made  the  hammock  the 
day  before.  This  afternoon  I  had  spent  lying  there,  under 
the  maples,  until  an  hour  ago. 

Xow  I  looked  down  the  long  white  road  which  led  past 


6  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  house.  I  looked  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  which 
lay  two  miles  away. 

The  birds  were  flying  about  swiftly,  uttering  short  calls  as 
they  do  when  a  tempest  is  coming  up. 

"We  shall  catch  it,"  I  said,  aloud. 

In  front  of  me  was  the  west,  and  there  the  clouds  were 
bluer  and  blacker  than  ever,  except  the  very  tops  of  them, 
which  were  a  soft  but  brilliant  white. 

There  was  a  distant  roar  somewhere,  and  I  knew  it  was 
the  wind  rushing  through  the  gorge  between  the  high  hills 
a  few  miles  to  the  north  of  us. 

The  breeze  would  be  here  presently,  but  now  it  was  so 
quiet  that  one  wanted  to  gasp. 

How  excited  it  does  make  one  feel  to  look  right  at  a  com- 
ing tempest !  It  was  as  if  something  alive  were  on  the  way. 
and  would  presently  snatch  you  up  and  toss  you  somewhere. 

My  heart  began  to  beat.  Somebody  says  it's  the  electri- 
cal state  of  the  air  that  is  so  exciting.  I  used  to  read  about 
it  up  at  Holyoke.  But  it  didn't  take  the  mystery  away,  this 
explaining. 

I  stepped  out  into  the  road  and  began  to  run  down  it,  for 
I  saw,  far  along  at  the  curve,  a  carriage  coming.  The  horse 
was  trotting  fast,  stepping  high,  and  making  a  cloud  of 
dust.  I  was  sure  it  was  the  gray  colt  that  father  had  just 
trained,  and  that  was  for  sale. 

As  I  ran  I  saw  that  there  were  two  people  on  the  seat  of 
the  light  buggy,  and  then  I  almost  thought  I  had  been  mis- 
taken in  thinking  it  was  father  coming. 

But  no — there  was  no  other  horse  with  such  a  dash  and 
stride  as  that. 

And  now  I  saw  that  it  was  a  woman  with  father — some- 
body he  had  taken  up  on  the  way,  of  course. 

The  roar  of  the  wind  grew  louder  and  nearer.     The  gale 


A    GRAY    COLT 


bent  over  the  trees ;  it  swept  up  a  blinding  cloud  of  dust 
and  dashed  it  at  me,  so  that  I  turned  and  scudded  back  to 
the  house,  my  skirts  flying  out  before  me  and  I  feeling  as  if 
some  great  hands  were  pushing  me  forward. 

At  the  same  moment  some  big  drops  splashed  slanting 
along;  then  floods  and  floods  sluiced  across  the  hot  earth, 
and  boiled,  and  roared,  and  hissed. 

Through  the  falling  water  I  saw  the  big  gray  spank  on  by 
me,  and  whirl  the  buggy  in  at  the  open  gate  of  the  road  that 
led  to  the  barn. 

I  heard  my  father  shout :  "  Hullo,  Billy  !  Scud  into  the 
house  this  minute  !     Scud  !" 

The  woman  with  him  had  her  head  bent,  and  she  was 
holding  her  hat  down  with  both  hands. 

That's  all  I  seemed  to  see;  yet  as  I  did  scud,  as  pa  had 
said,  I  thought  "She  isn't  a  neighbor." 

A  flash  of  lightning  came  full  across  my  eyes  as  I  stepped 
into  the  entry.  Mother  caught  my  hand  and  drew  me  in, 
slamming  the  door  after  me. 

The  thunder  cracked  and  split,  and  appeared  to  be  tear- 
ing the  world  apart.     I  clapped  my  hands  over  my  ears. 

"You're  wet  as  sop,"  I  heard  mother  say.  "  Go  right  up- 
stairs and  change  your  clo'es." 

But  I  didn't  go  directly.  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
large  comfortable  kitchen  and  looked  out  at  the  tempest. 
Though  it  was  broad  day,  how  dark  it  was !  The  rain  it- 
self was  thick  enough  to  shut  out  the  light  of  heaven,  even 
without  the  clouds. 

Aunt  Lowizy  came  in  from  the  other  part  of  the  house. 
She  had  been  shutting  a  north  window  which  had  been 
overlooked,  and  the  front  of  her  gown  was  drenched. 

"  The  wind's  goin'  to  change,"  she  said.  "  There's  a  strip 
of  clear  sky  below  the  cloud  a'ready.     'Twon't  rain  more'n 


8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

five  minutes  more.  'N'  we  sh'll  have  a  rainbow,  I  guess. 
I  always  do  love  to  see  a  rainbow.  It  makes  me  think  of 
God's  promise." 

"  Did  somebody  come  with  your  father,  Sis  ?"  asked 
mother.  "  I  thought  he  wa'n't  alone  when  I  had  a  glimpse 
of  him." 

"There's  a  woman  with  him,"  I  answered. 

"I  s'pose  it's  Eunice  Small,  ain't  it?  I  knew  she'd  gone 
up  to  the  village  this  morning." 

"No;  it  isn't  Eunice.     It's  a  stranger." 

"  I'm  sure  I  d'  know  who  it  can  be,"  was  the  response. 
"  I  guess  she'll  go  on  when  it  slacks  up.  Of  course  they'll 
stay  in  the  barn  while  it  comes  down  like  this." 

We  three  women  drew  our  chairs  into  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen,  after  we  had  shut  all  the  doors  so  that  there  should 
not  be  a  draught  anywhere,  for  we  thought  that  lightning 
was  liable  to  follow  a  current  of  air.  We  always  talked  in 
low  tones  during  a  tempest.  Mother  said  it  wasn't  "  seemly  " 
to  be  making  a  noise  at  such  times.  She  said  that  to  her  it 
was  as  if  the  Lord  was  speaking  in  His  holy  temple. 

Mother  was  a  Second  Adventist.  She  didn't  say  much 
about  her  belief,  and  she  went  every  Sunday  to  the  "  Ortho- 
dox Church  "  at  the  village.  But  once  in  a  while,  when  I 
was  alone  with  her,  she  would  speak  of  the  coming  of  the 
Lord,  and  her  face  would  flush  and  her  eyes  begin  to  shine, 
while  her  voice  wasn't  quite  steady. 

At  such  times  I  used  to  look  at  her  in  wonder  and  feel  in 
my  soul  some  curious  and  answering  cry  of  mysticism.  But 
I  didn't  believe  in  the  second  coming  of  Christ,  though  I 
used  to  try  to  believe  it,  thinking  that  such  a  belief  might 
perhaps  make  me  as  good  a  woman  as  mother  was. 

Now,  as  we  all  sat  in  the  kitchen  and  waited  for  the 
tempest  to  abate,  I  couldn't  help  noticing  the  kind  of  glo- 


A    GRAY    COLT  9 

rifled  look  there  was  on  mother's  face.  She  watched  the 
blinding  flashes,  her  eyes  growing  brighter  and  brighter. 

Once  Aunt  Lowizy  reached  forward  and  put  her  hand 
on  mother's  arm. 

"  Serissy,"  she  said,  "  now  don't  go  and  get  excited." 

"  No,  no,"  was  the  answer,  "but  I  can't  help  thinkin' 
it's  awful  grand.  What  if  He  should  come  in  His  might, 
ridin'  on  the  cloud  ?" 

I  heard  this,  though  I  did  not  appear  to  hear  it.  I 
wondered  what  father  thought  of  this  kind  of  talk,  and  then 
I  knew  intuitively  that  she  would  never  speak  in  that  way 
before  him. 

Presently  there  came  longer  spaces  of  time  between  the 
flash  and  the  thunder,  and  then  the  rain  grew  less  heavy. 

The  sun  came  out.  I  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it; 
there  was  the  rainbow,  growing  brighter  every  minute.  A 
great  rush  of  damp,  sweet  smells  came  in.  The  birds  be- 
gan to  sing  again,  now  in  that  triumphant  way  they  have 
after  a  rain. 

Two  figures  came  hurrying  in  from  the  barn.  They 
were  father  holding  an  umbrella  over  the  woman.  They 
stepped  into  the  porch,  and  mother  went  forward  to  meet 
them. 

"  Who  in  the  world  is  she  ?"  exclaimed  Aunt  Lowizy ; 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  her  from  Adam." 

"Wall,  Serissy,"  said  father,  "you  see,  I  did  git  caught 
this  time.  But  I  guess  I've  sold  the  gray  colt.  Though, 
of  course,  there  ain't  anybody  goin'  to  give  me  all  he's 
worth.  I  declare,  I  ain't  got  the  cheek  to  ask  all  the  crit- 
ter's worth,  and  that's  a  fact." 

Mother  made  no  answer  to  this  remark.  She  was  look- 
ing at  the  woman  who  had  come  in  with  father,  and  who 
was  standing  behind  him,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other 


10  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

of  the  group  in  front  of  her.  There  was  a  slight  smile  on 
her  face,  and  an  extremely  amused  look  in  her  eyes.  No 
one  would  for  an  instant  have  taken  her  for  one  of  the 
townspeople.  She  was  as  different  as  a  person  could  well 
be.  She  was  dressed  in  a  dark  gown  with  absolutely  no 
frill,  or  fold,  or  ruffle,  and  we  country  folks  were  greatly 
given  to  frills  and  ruffles  on  our  frocks.  Having  had  "  ad- 
vantages," I  knew  that  this  woman's  gown  fitted  in  what  I 
thought  a  marvellous  way ;  but  I  had  also  a  dim  idea  that 
it  was,  after  all,  more  her  carriage — her  pose,  perhaps,  I 
mean — than  her  dressmaker's  art  that  gave  her  that  dis- 
tinguished air. 

She  appeared  old  to  me.  I  was  young  enough  to  have 
thirty-five  seem  an  age  when  one  might  just  as  well  die, 
for  life  could  have  nothing  more  for  a  person  who  had 
lived  out  such  a  number  of  years.  She  was  light ;  she  had 
an  immense  quantity  of  chestnut  hair,  streaked  somewhat 
with  gray;  she  was  tall;  she  had  broad,  well-knit  shoul- 
ders, and  she  carried  her  head  high. 

When  she  spoke  there  was  a  precision  in  her  enuncia- 
tion and  a  sonority  in  her  voice.  Altogether  she  was  so 
different  from  any  one  I  had  ever  seen  that  she  gave  me  a 
bewildering  sensation,  as  if  I  were  somewhere  else,  or 
somebody  else,  myself. 

"There  are  my  folks,"  said  father,  taking  off  his  wet 
coat ;  "  it's  my  wife,  and  my  wife's  sister,  and  the  young 
one  is  Billy.  I  hope  you'll  make  yourself  to  home,  Miss — 
Miss — I  can't  seem  to  git  the  hang  of  your  name,  somehow." 

"  Runciman,"  in  a  tone  so  clear  that  the  word  seemed  to 
•be  presented  bodily  to  us. 

"Wall,  Miss  Runciman,  you'll  stop  to  supper  with  us.  I 
s'pose  we're  goin'  to  have  a  picked -up  meal,  but  you'll 
make  allowances  for  that." 


A    GRAY    COLT  II 

Mother  stepped  up  nearer  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you'll  have  dinner.  It'll  be  ready  in 
a  little  while  now.     Ain't  you  wet?'' 

"  Thank  you,  no  ;  I'm  not  wet — only  my  hair  a  little.  I 
shall  be  so  glad  to  stay  a  while.  You  see  I  had  driven  over 
to  this  town  because  some  one  told  me  that  Mr.  Armstrong 
had  a  horse  for  sale.  I  was  looking  for  one  to  make  out 
my  team,  and  it  happened  that  your  husband  was  at  the 
village.  He  wanted  me  to  drive  with  him  and  see  how  the 
colt  went.  So  I  did.  We  were  caught  in  the  shower,  and 
he  said  we  were  nearer  his  home  than  anywhere  else,  so  we 
came  here." 

Having  made  this  explanation  to  mother,  Miss  Runci- 
man,  in  answer  to  an  invitation  to  go  into  the  other  room, 
asked  leave  to  sit  down  in  the  kitchen.  She  said  she  hoped 
they  wouldn't  make  company  of  her,  and  that  every  mo- 
ment she  spent  in  a  farmhouse  like  this  was  like — she  hesi- 
tated, smiled,  and  continued — 

"  I  was  going  to  say  like  wine  to  me,  but  I  don't  mean 
that.  I  mean  like  one  of  my  childhood's  days  come  back 
again.'' 

So  she  sat  down  by  the  window  and  looked  out,  or 
looked  at  us,  and  sometimes  spoke  a  few  words,  saying 
them  with  a  wonderful,  new  kind  of  gentleness,  and  in  some 
mysterious  way  putting  a  great  deal  of  meaning  into  them. 

I  helped  about  getting  the  meal.  We  had  fried  ham  and 
eggs,  and  Miss  Runciman,  when  I  came  with  the  basket 
of  e2f2fs,  rose  and  said  she  wished  I  would  let  her  attend 
to  them  ;  that  it  was  a  thousand  years  since  she  had  broken 
eggs  into  a  spider  with  hot  fat  in  it,  and  had  to  jump  back 
for  fear  the  fat  would  spatter  on  her  face. 

So  I  brought  her  the  little  flat  spade  that  we  use  to  turn 
the  eggs  and  take  them  out.     She  took  the  instrument,  but 


12  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

she  remarked  that  she  had  never  been  used  to  luxuries  like 
that,  and  didn't  know  as  she  could  adjust  herself  to  it. 
Then  she  laughed  and  we  all  laughed  ;  and  I,  for  one,  had 
a  sense  of  pleasurable  interest  that  lacked  very  little  of 
being  excitement.  I  began  to  think  of  how  I  would  de- 
scribe this  woman  in  a  letter  to  my  friend,  who  called 
me  Vilhelm ;  and  I  finally  decided  that  I  couldn't  de- 
scribe her  at  all,  because  the  very  thing  that  seemed  so 
interesting  was  a  thing,  whatever  it  was,  that  hadn't  a 
name. 

We  were  usually  very  silent  at  our  meals,  but  to-day  we 
grew  gay  and  full  of  talk.  Even  mother  told  a  little  story, 
and  told  it  with  a  zest  that  was  charming ;  and  Aunt 
Lowizy  remembered  something  that  had  happened  when 
she  was  a  girl,  and  took  such  delight  in  telling  it  that  we 
all  shared  her  pleasure. 

As  for  father,  he  beamed  and  shone.  I  didn't  know  what 
ailed  us.  The  stranger  did  not  talk  much.  Her  eyes,  brill- 
iant, laughing,  stimulating,  glanced  from  one  to  the  other, 
as  she  said  a  word  or  two. 

And  it  was  good  to  have  a  guest  so  hungry.  Miss  Run- 
ciman  ate  with  a  relish.  I  furtively  watched  her  large, 
white,  strong-looking  hands.  They  gave  me  an  idea  that 
she  could  do  anything.  These  hands  had  the  unmistak- 
able appearance  of  not  working ;  the  nails  were  pink  and 
polished. 

Very  likely  it  is  silly  in  me  to  try  to  tell  so  much  about 
this  woman's  appearance,  when,  as  I  have  hinted,  the  vital 
thing  can't  be  told. 

'  After  supper  we  all  went  to  the  barn  to  see  the  colt  again. 
He  was  led  out  into  the  middle  of  the  great  floor  and  Miss 
Runciman  walked  round  him,  looking  at  his  legs  and  lifting 
up  his  feet  to  see  his  hoofs. 


A    GRAY    COLT  I 3 

"  I  never  would  allow  a  frog  to  be  cut  off  so  much  as  that," 
she  said,  emphatically,  holding  one  of  the  forefeet  in  her 
hand  and  putting  the  tip  of  a  finger  on  the  frog. 

Father  burst  into  asseverations  that  the  horse  had  never 
walked  a  lame  step  ;  that  he  had  the  best  shoer  in  the 
county ;  that  the  hoof  was  sound  as  a  dollar,  and  would 
have  gone  on  if  the  lady  had  not  interrupted  him. 

"  I  know  the  hoof  is  sound,"  she  said,  ':  but  it's  a  cruel 
thing  to  cut  a  horse's  foot  to  fit  a  shoe,  instead  of  fitting  the 
shoe  to  the  foot.  Do  you  think  this  fellow  will  let  me  mount 
him  ?" 

For  the  first  time  my  father  failed  in  his  glibness  of  speech. 
He  hesitated. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  wanted  a  saddle-hoss,"  he  said. 

"Let's  try  him,"  she  responded,  cheerfully. 

In  a  few  moments  my  old  side-saddle  was  on  the  gray's 
back,  and  he  was  tossing  up  his  head  and  his  eyes  were  dis- 
tending. 

"  I  vow,  I'd  ruther  you  wouldn't !"  exclaimed  father. 

Miss  Runciman  did  not  reply.  She  was  standing  in  front 
of  the  horse,  looking  at  him,  and  stroking  his  nose.  He 
stopped  throwing  up  his  head,  and  in  a  moment  the  head 
drooped  slightly  toward  her,  as  if  the  animal  were  asking  for 
another  caress. 

"  Just  give  me  a  hand,  Mr.  Armstrong,"  said  Miss  Runci- 
man. 

"  I  tell  you  I  don't  like  it !"  cried  my  father. 

The  lady  smiled  and  said  again  : 

';  Please  help  me  up." 

Father  extended  his  hand  and  our  guest  sprang  into  the 
saddle. 

The  gray  snorted  and  made  a  dash  out  of  the  barn. 

"  Darn  fool !"  cried  father,  in  a  low,  furious  voice  .•  "  this '11 


14  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

spoil  the  sale  !  And  I  was  goin'  to  git  five  hundred  for 
that  colt !     What's  she  want  to  ride  him  for  ?" 

"  Lemuel !"  said  mother,  reprovingly. 

But  father  only  swore  under  his  breath. 

We  ran  out  of  the  barn  to  see  where  the  colt  had  gone. 

There  he  was,  galloping  down  the  road,  going  at  a  great, 
swinging  pace,  the  wet  sand  flying  up  from  his  feet,  his 
long  gray  tail  straight  out  behind. 

"  What  kind  of  a  woman  is  that,  anyway  ?" 

It  was  Aunt  Lowizy  who  asked  this. 

"I  d'know,"  said  father,  "but  she's  a  woman  who's  got 
to  buy  the  colt,  anyway." 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  misrepresented  anything  to  her,  Lem- 
uel," said  my  mother. 

"Misrepresented!  Don't  you  go  'n'  be  a  fool,  Serissy. 
That  woman  knows  a  hoss  's  well  's  I  do.  Them  frogs  was 
pared  down  too  much  ;  'n'  I  give  the  blacksmith  a  good 
cussin'  for  it,  too.  Thunder  !  There  they  go  into  the  cross- 
road !  I  do  hope  the  colt  won't  smash  her  all  to  flinders.  I 
ain't  settin'  up  the  gray  for  a  saddle-hoss.  She  said  she 
wanted  a  hoss  to  go  with  another  in  some  kind  of  a  pri- 
vate travellin'  coach.  One  of  her  animals  had  broken 
his  leg." 

Father  spoke  with  what  seemed  profane  emphasis. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  he  ran  down  the  road  until 
he  could  see  along  the  cross-road,  and  I  followed  him. 

There  was  a  hill  in  this  road,  and  evidently  the  colt  and 
its  rider  had  gone  up  the  hill  and  down  the  other  side,  out 
of  sight.  Anyway,  we  could  not  see  them  when  we  reached 
the  corner. 

I  knew  how  alarmed  father  was  by  the  whiteness  of  his 
face. 

He  kept  running  on,  and  I  kept  beside  him. 


A  GRAY  COL1  1 5 

■  I  vish  I'd  stopped  hei  he  panted.  il  I  wish  I'd 
stopped  her  by  main  forcr 

e  mounted  the  hill,  and  could  now  see  the  long  line  of 
wet  road  with  its  bushes  and  trees  glistening  on  each  side. 

Thtrt.  :;.r::;tr  iheii  :hir.  sterr.ei  :: : ssibl±.  ".vis  :::t  :::v 
h  ::;:  ::.  i  his  riher 

•Thank  the  Lord,  she  ain't  got  throwed  yet!"  cried 
father.     "  I  guess  'tain't  no  use  to  try  to  foller  any  further." 

I  did  not  say  anything  My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
woman  who  rode  the  big  horse,  sat  him  with  an  easy  sway 
to  his  stride  that  made  me  directly  put  away  all  apprehen- 
s : : :: . 

"  She's  all  right,  pa/"  I  said,  after  a  little. 

"By  George!  I  do  believe  she  is,"  was  the  response. 
"  But  Til  tell  you,  Billy,  though  you  needn't  let  on  to  your 
ma,  that  the  only  two  times  I  ever  tried  to  get  on  the  g: 
back  he  kicked  and  cut  up  so  that  I  went  off  like  a  shot, 
and  I  gave  it  up.  I  thought  if  I  trained  him  to  harness 
'twas  good  enough.     There !     She's  turned  round." 

We  sat  down  on  a  stone  by  the  roadside  and  watched  the 
gray  as  he  came  along  flinging  his  feet  up  and  carry  :r__" 
himself  in  that  proud  way  which  so  stirs  one  to  witness. 

Miss  Runciman  pulled  him  up  in  front  of  us. 

"Wall?"  said  father. 

He  was  still  white  ;  and  when  he  went  to  the  horse  and 
; -'-:  h  5  :.i:.i  :r.  ::.-.•  g-issy  r.e:k  his  hi:. 2  '.:t::.'z'.±i  2  ..::'.-.- 

"  I  suppose  it  isn't  policy  to  say  anything  in  praise  of 
the  horse  until  he  is  mine,"  responded  the  rider. 

:::':::  i::kti  reiitvti.  H:  s:::i  :ht:t  r.v;5:ir.i-  :... 
rr  ly's  : : :  t . :  : '■:  r :  ur.  2  :.:.  2  71222  i r.  his  h  . z t rs 

"You  c"n  say  what  you're  a  mind  to,"  he  answered; 
"  there's  the  hoss,  V  if  you  c'n  pick  flaws  in  him  you're 
welcome  to  do  it.     I  don't  pretend  hr 


16  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

But  he's  young  'n'  sound,  V  he  c'n  road  his  twelve  miles  in 
an  hour  without  a  whip.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  jest  to 
suck  in  your  teeth  to  that  hoss,  'n'  he'll  start,  I  c'n  tell  ye." 

Miss  Runciman  laughed  gayly.  Her  face  showed  ex- 
hilaration and  delight. 

"Now  I  ought  to   beat  you   down   on  your  price,"  she 

said. 

At  this  father  looked  injured.  He  thrust  his  hands  into 
his  pockets  and  rattled  the  loose  silver. 

"  I  ain't  askin'  you  what  the  animal's  really  worth,"  he 
said,  solemnly.  "You  bein'  a  woman, I  ain't  goin'  to  try  to 
git  the  better  of  you  's  I  would  if  you  was  a  man.  I  cal- 
kilate  a  man  knows  how  to  look  out  for  himself.  But  I 
tell  you  I  don't  never  take  advantage  of  a  woman  when 
I'm  dealing  with  her." 

Miss  Runciman  laughed  again.  I  wished  father  wouldn't 
talk  just  like  that.     But  he  was  very  serious. 

"  Now  if  I  were  a  man,"  said  Miss  Runciman,  "  how 
much  would  you  ask  for  this  horse  ?" 

"  Five  hundred  and  fifty,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  And  now  ?" 

"  Five  hundred." 

"  And  you  take  off  fifty  just  because  I'm  a  woman  ?" 

"  Eggsactly,"  with  the  utmost  solemnity. 

"  Oh,  this  is  gallantry  indeed  !" 

My  father's  face  did  not  change.     He  nodded  gravely. 

"  I  d'now  whether  it's  gallantry  or  not,"  he  said,  "  but 
you  can't  make  me  take  advantage  of  no  woman.  I  never 
did  'n'  I  never  will." 

Miss  Runciman's  face  showed  such  keen  amusement  that 
I  felt  the  blood  rush  hotter  than  ever  to  my  cheeks. 

She  glanced  at  me  and  then  seemed  to  try  to  subdue 
her  mirth. 


A    GRAY    COLT  I 7 

"  I'll  take  him  at  five  hundred,"  she  said. 

"  All  right." 

Father's  countenance  looked  almost  dejected  ;  but  I  knew 
he  was  full  of  triumph.  Still  one  would  have  said  that  he 
had  just  made  a  very  poor  bargain. 

"  I'll  send  you  a  check  to-morrow,  and  will  write  you 
where  to  bring  him." 

Then  she  shook  the  bridle,  and  the  gray  galloped  round 
into  his  own  yard. 

I  followed  lagging.  I  walked  so  slowly  that  when  I 
reached  the  house  the  buggy,  with  the  colt  again  hitched  to 
it,  and  father  and  the  stranger  on  the  seat,  was  just  turning 
into  the  road. 

Miss  Runciman  made  a  movement,  and  father  drew  in 
the  horse.  I  went  up  to  the  side  of  the  carriage  where  the 
woman  sat,  and  she  leaned  out  and  extended  her  hand  to 
me. 

"Good-by,  Billy,"  she  said.  "  I  must  call  you  Billy  be- 
cause that's  the  name  by  which  your  father  introduced 
you." 

"  Good-by,"  I  answered. 

She  was  holding  my  hand  closely  and  looking  down  at 
me.     It  seemed  to  me  that  she  had  not  looked  at  me  before. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 

"Twenty-three." 

"  Have  you  ever  earned  any  money?" 

"  No." 

"  Should  you  like  to  earn  money?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  want  to  teach  school." 

She  smiled.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  say  something 
more,  but  she  only  repeated  her  good-by.  Then  the  gray 
colt  sprang  forward,  and  I  was  left  standing  in  the  road 
staring  after  her. 


l8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  That's  curious,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  I  don't  know  why 
she  asked  if  I  wanted  to  earn  money." 

When  I  went  into  the  house  I  found  mother  and  Aunt 
Lowizy  talking  about  the  woman.     Mother  was  saying — 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her,  I'm  sure.  I  can't 
tell  whether  I  like  her  or  not." 

"  I  can  tell,"  said  Aunt  Lowizy.  "  I  don't  want  nothing 
to  do  with  her.  What's  she  going  round  buying  horses 
for  ?  And  who  is  she,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  I  hope 
Lemuel  won't  let  her  take  the  colt  away  'fore  he  sees  her 
money." 

Lemuel  saw  her  money  the  next  day,  as  she  had  said.  The 
check  came,  and  father  took  it  to  the  bank  in  the  town  and 
got  the  cash. 

"  How  does  she  know  but  I'm  goin'  to  keep  hoss  'n' 
money  both  ?"  he  chuckled. 

There  was  something  in  the  note  which  accompanied  the 
check  which  made  my  blood  start  with  wonder.     It  was  this : 

"  Please  bring  the  horse  to  the  Ottawa  Hotel  in  Chilton 
on  the  17th,  and  please  also  let  Billy  come  with  you.  When 
I  see  a  child  with  a  face  like  hers  I  have  a  wish  to  see  her 
again.     Don't  fail  to  bring  her." 

Father  read  this  note  slowly  to  us  when  he  came  home 
with  it.     He  looked  at  me. 

"  What  does  she  mean  by  '  a  face  like  hers  ?' "  he  asked. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  Billy's  face,  anyway  ?" 

Mother  turned  and  gazed  at  me,  and  her  own  face  grew 
troubled. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  answered.  "  I  never 
thought  Mina  was  pretty." 

"  I'm  not  pretty ;  I  know  all  about  that,"  I  said,  deci- 
sively. "  I  haven't  an  idea  what  Miss  Runciman  means, 
but  she  doesn't  mean  that,  and  I  want  to  go  with  pa.     It's 


A    GRAY    COLT 


l9 


thirty  miles  to  Chilton,  isn't  it?     Yes,  I  must  go  with  you, 
pa."     And,  of  course,  I  went. 

The  17th  came  two  days  later.  We  started  early  in  the 
morning  in  the  light  buggy,  the  gray  colt  in  the  shafts  and 
another  horse  hitched  to  the  back  of  the  wagon,  that  he 
might  take  us  home  again. 

The  long  drive  stands  out  in  my  memory  as  distinctly 
as  if  it  had  been  taken  yesterday.  It  was  early  summer 
and  we  drove  through  a  country  of  great  farms  and  wide 
pastures,  where  cows  and  sheep  were  feeding.  The  sky 
was  blue  and  the  sun  hot,  but  the  wind  was  fresh  from  the 
west  and  filled  with  the  odors  of  grass  and  lush  brakes  and 
wild  roses.     Do  you  know  what  such  an  air  is  ? 

Over  the  plains  of  heaven  does  any  sweeter  air  blow  ? 

Father  was  in  great  spirits.  He  talked,  and  whistled, 
and  sang  snatches  of  song  in  a  rough  bass  voice,  and  I 
joined  him  in  the  song  when  I  could. 

We  drove  at  a  good  pace  and  were  entering  the  city 
of  Chilton  in  less  than  four  hours  from  the  time  we  had 
started.  Father  always  said  that  eight  miles  was  enough 
to  drive  in  an  hour  when  you  were  on  a  long  journey. 

The  Ottawa  Hotel  was  a  big  building  with  fluted  white 
pillars  in  front,  standing  on  the  main  street. 

My  heart  was  beating  very  fast  when  I  sat  in  the  ladies' 
parlor,  waiting  for  Miss  Runciman  to  come  down.  Father 
sent  me  in  while  he  had  the  horses  put  up.  He  said  he 
would  be  round  and  call  for  me  in  an  hour  or  two. 

I  had  told  the  servant  to  inform  Miss  Runciman  that 
Miss  Armstrong  had  come. 

The  man  disappeared,  having  gone  out  of  sight  in  the 
elevator  which  was  sliding  up  and  down  directly  opposite 
the  open  door  of  the  parlor. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  when  I  first  entered  it 


20  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

and  I  gazed  about  at  the  big,  soft  chairs,  the  marble  tables, 
the  stiff  palms  in  green  pots  in  the  bay  window. 

Very  soon  a  man  and  two  women  came  in.  The  two 
women  sat  down,  but  the  man  strolled  about,  holding  his 
hat  and  cane,  and  diffusing  an  odor  of  cigar  smoke.  He 
looked  at  everything,  including  me ;  looked  with  large, 
authoritative  eyes  that  did  not  linger,  but  that  apparently 
comprehended. 

Another  servant  appeared  and  took  their  cards  from 
these  people,  and  then  he  also  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
elevator. 

One  of  the  women,  slowly  wielding  a  fan,  spoke.  She 
said  : 

"  It's  so  difficult  to  catch  Miss  Runciman.  Ronald,  are 
you  sure  she  was  to  be  at  the  Ottawa  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  the  paper  made  such  a  statement." 

"  But  you  can't  tell  anything  by  the  papers." 

"  I  know  they  lie  like  troopers,"  he  responded. 

"  But  you  can  try  to  see  Miss  Runciman.  You'll  never 
see  her  if  you  don't  try." 

"  I  do  wonder  how  she  looks  when  you  meet  her  in  a 
room  like  this,"  said  the  other  woman.  As  she  spoke,  she 
rose  and  moved  uneasily  to  a  window. 


II 
"what's  an  understudy?" 

I  sat  very  still,  far  back  in  my  big  chair  at  the  end  of 
the  long  parlor.  I  wondered  what  Miss  Runciman  was, 
anyway,  and  why  it  was  "  so  hard  to  catch  her."  Evidently 
these  people  did  not  know  her,  but  then  why  did  they  want 
to  see  her  ? 

The  woman  with  the  fan,  whom  her  companion  called 
"  Cornelia,"  sauntered  slowly  down  my  way,  apparently 
saw  me  for  the  first  time,  looked  irresolutely  at  me  for  an 
instant,  then  paused  in  front  of  my  chair.  She  was  dressed 
too  richly,  I  thought,  and  the  perfume  of  "  frangipanni " 
was  really  quite  stifling  as  she  waved  her  fan  back  and 
forth ;  the  breeze  thus  created  moved  the  short,  dark  hair 
on  her  forehead,  and  I  was  afraid  the  rice  powder,  visibly 
deposited  on  her  cheeks  and  chin,  would  be  wafted  abroad 
in  the  room. 

"Perhaps  you're  acquainted  with  her?"  she  said  to  me, 
with  a  little  air  of  condescension. 

As  she  spoke  the  man  drew  near  and  stood  staring  at  a 
lurid  painting  of  the  "  Plains  of  Heaven  "  which  filled  the 
space  on  the  wall  behind  me,  between  the  top  of  my  head 
and  the  ceiling. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  somewhat  confused,  for  I 
had  not  supposed  she  was  going  to  speak  to  me. 

The  man  brought  his  eyes  down  from  the  painting  and, 


2  2  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

tucking  his  cane  under  his  arm,  began  to  smooth  his  silk 
hat  round  and  round  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  A  diamond 
on  that  hand  flung  a  spark  into  my  vision.  It  seemed  a 
very  large  diamond,  indeed. 

"  Miss  Runciman,  I  mean,"  went  on  Cornelia.  "  Per- 
haps you've  met  her." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  and  I  felt  quite  proud.  I  flushed 
up  with  still  more  pride  as  I  added,  "  I  came  by  appoint- 
ment." 

"  Oh  !"  lifting  up  heavy,  white  eyelids  with  a  more  ani- 
mated stare.  "  Ronald,"  turning  to  the  man,  "  this — per — 
I  mean  this  young  lady,  knows  Miss  Runciman.  She  came 
by  appointment." 

The  gentleman — I  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  was  a  gentle- 
man, notwithstanding  the  size  of  his  diamond — glanced  at 
me  and  then  turned  away,  saying : 

"  Well,  Cornelia,  she  is  more  fortunate  than  we  are,  then. 
Perhaps  we  might  better  go,  and  come  some  other  time." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  put  on  his  hat,  recollected, 
and  did  not  put  it  on. 

He  commenced  to  walk  round  the  room  again,  and  I 
thought  he  began  to  hum  a  tune,  but  stopped  immediate- 

'y- 

The  elevator  opposite  the  wide  door  of  this  public  parlor 
had  not  omitted  arriving  and  departing,  and  people  had 
not  ceased  from  stepping  out  of  it  and  into  it.  Two  or 
three  times  some  one  had  come  to  the  door,  glanced  in,  and 
then  gone  away.  Two  women  had  entered,  rustled  about, 
and  gone.  A  black  servant  came  in  with  a  salver  in  his 
hand,  but  he  apparently  did  not  find  the  person  he  wanted. 

Every  time  any  figure  approached  the  door  my  heart 
gave  a  jump.  There  was  the  elevator  stopping  again  ;  this 
time  a  tall  woman  stepped  from  it  and  walked  forward  with 


"what's  an  understudy ?"  23 

that  decision  of  motion  which  showed  that  she  came  in 
with  a  purpose. 

She  had  a  parasol  in  one  hand  and  gloves  in  the  other, 
and  a  large  hat  on  her  head  ;  I  thought  I  had  not  known 
a  hat  could  be  quite  so  picturesque,  though  my  friend  who 
calls  me  Vilhelm  knows  how  to  wear  a  large  hat. 

Of  course  this  was  Miss  Runciman.  I  did  not  move, 
for  I  felt  as  if  this  gentleman  and  these  two  ladies  would 
have  the  first  chance  of  an  interview. 

Cornelia,  the  woman  with  the  fan  and  the  frangipanni, 
did  indeed  step  forward  instantly,  exclaiming : 

"  Oh,  do  forgive  us,  Miss  Runciman  !  But  when  we 
knew  you  were  here  at  the  Ottawa,  we — " 

Miss  Runciman,  as  she  walked  forward,  glanced  over  the 
speaker,  but  her  face  did  not  change  into  the  very  slightest 
smile  as  she  responded  : 

"  Pardon  me." 

That  was  all  she  said  as  she  came  towards  me.  I  rose. 
She  held  out  her  hand  and  asked  : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Billy  ?" 

"  I'm  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  I  answered. 

"  And  how's  the  gray  colt  ?" 

"  He's  all  right.  Came  in  at  the  end  of  his  thirty  miles 
as  fine  as  when  he  started  from  home." 

t;  Ah  !     That's  the  kind  of  a  colt  to  have." 

She  began  to  draw  on  one  of  her  gloves,  looking  at  me 
as  she  did  so.  I  grew  red  and  white,  but  she  did  not  with- 
draw her  eyes ;  she  would  have  gazed  at  something  inani- 
mate in  just  that  way,  I  was  sure. 

"  I'm  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  at  length  ;  "  I  thought, 
perhaps,  your  mother  would  forbid  it.  I'm  going  out  just 
now.  I  want  you  to  wait  until  I  come  back" — she  walked 
a  little  way  from  me  and  touched  a  button  on  the  wall. 


24 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


A  black  man  came  gently  forward  from  somewhere.  "  Take 
this  lady  to  my  room,"  she  commanded.  I  followed  the 
servant,  who  said  I  was  "to  please  to  take  the  elevator." 
I  did  so,  and  found  myself  going  up  and  instantly  stopping. 
The  black  man  wasn't  with  me  and  I  stood  in  a  wide  hall, 
a  sense  of  confusion  upon  me,  which  was  mitigated,  how- 
ever, by  the  immediate  appearance  of  the  servant,  who 
knocked  on  a  door  near. 

Somebody  said  "  Come  in,"  in  a  muffled  voice,  and  I 
opened  the  door,  finding  myself  in  a  large  parlor  where  a 
young  woman  was  arranging  the  folds  of  a  velvet  skirt  over 
a  "  form."  It  was  a  red  velvet  skirt,  and  the  train  of  it, 
lined  with  white  silk,  was  laid  out  several  yards  over  the 
floor. 

The  girl  was  kneeling  down  as  I  entered  and  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  me.  She  had  her  mouth  full  of  pins 
and  couldn't  speak  very  clearly.  She  looked  back  over 
her  shoulder  at  me  as  I  stood  just  within  the  room.  I  will 
confess  that  I  was  awed  somewhat  by  the  great  grandeur 
of  the  gilt  and  plush  chairs,  the  gilt  mirrors,  and  the  gen- 
eral sense  of  glitter  from  the  heavy,  embossed  paper  on  the 
walls.  I  wasn't  used  to  hotels,  and  didn't  know  that  there 
is  usually  a  great  deal  of  plush  and  gilt  in  them. 

"  Miss  Runciman's  gone  out,"  said  the  girl,  thickly,  one 
pin  dropping  from  her  mouth  as  she  spoke. 

"I  know  it,"  I  said. 

She  held  her  hand  under  her  lips  and  ejected  all  the  pins 
into  it ;  but  she  continued  kneeling. 

"  Miss  Runciman's  gone  out,"  she  said  again,  as  if  I  had 

not  heard. 

"  I  know  it,"  I  answered  for  the  second  time. 

I  was  irritated  by  the  way  the  girl  looked  at  me,  and  so 
I  would  not  volunteer  any  explanation  of  my  appearance. 


••what's  an  understudy?"  25 

';  Have  you  seen  her?"  she  asked,  now  sitting  back  on 
her  heels  that  she  might  the  better  gaze  at  me. 
••  Yes,"  I  answered. 

I  apparently  irritated  her,  for  she  exclaimed  : 

••  Can't  you  speak  more  'n  that?'' 

•■  Yes.  I  can.  Miss  Runciman  told  me  to  come  here  and 
wait  for  her,"  I  replied. 

"All  right,  then.  Sit  down  somewhere,  and  make  your- 
self to  home." 

I  advanced  into  the  room  upon  this.  I  went  to  a  table 
upon  which  lay  a  heap  of  cabinet  photographs.  The  first 
one  was  a  picture  of  Miss  Runciman  in  street  dress ;  she 
was  looking  right  at  me  with  that  same  expression  of  gen- 
tle imperiousness  I  had  seen  in  her  face.  The  next  one 
was  a  picture  of  Miss  Runciman  in  ermine  and  velvet  robes, 
with  her  head  flung  up,  her  hand  out,  the  whole  attitude 
one  of  queenlike  command.  I  felt  my  eyes  begin  to  dis- 
tend as  I  went  on  with  the  photographs — they  were  all  of 
Miss  Runciman.  though  in  some  the  features  and  expres- 
sion were  so  different,  not  to  mention  the  dress. 

I  dropped  the  last  card  on  the  table  and  turned  to  my 
companion,  who  was  still  on  the  floor,  by  the  skirt. 

"  What !"  I  exclaimed,  i;  is  she  an  actress  ?" 

There  was  that  in  my  manner  that  made  the  girl,  who  had 
again  filled  her  mouth  with  pins,  once  more  very  hastily 
drop  them  into  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

She  gazed  up  at  me. 

"  Gracious  !"  she  cried,  as  if  I  had  betrayed  an  ignorance 
beyond  her  understanding. 

I  was  very  uncomfortable,  but  I  persisted,  as,  perhaps, 
was  my  way. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?"  I  inquired.  "I  suppose  it 
isn't  a  secret." 


26  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  Well,  I  should  say  'twasn't  a  secret,"  she  burst  out.  "  I 
declare  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  person  in  the  civilized 
world  who  didn't  know  what  Miss  Runciman  is." 

I  was  aware  that  I  had  a  strong  desire  to  go  up  to  this 
girl  and  slap  her ;  but  I  suppose  it  is  vulgar  to  slap  people. 
I  stood  still  and  glared.  I  was  suffering  from  curiosity,  but 
I  would  ask  no  more  questions.  I  said  stiffly  that  I  lived 
in  the  country,  and  that  there  were  some  things  that  country 
people  knew,  but  there  were  other  things  that  they  did  not 
know. 

Having  said  this,  I  walked  over  to  the  window  and  gazed 
into  the  street,  with  my  back  to  the  person  on  her  knees. 
I  heard  her  laughing  to  herself,  and  I  had  a  feeling  of 
great  virtue  because  I  did  not,  even  now,  go  forward  and 
"give  her  a  hit,"  as  we  do  when  we  are  children  and  a  play- 
mate becomes  too  exasperating. 

Presently  the  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  went  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room  contemplating  the  skirt  on  the  form,  with 
her  head  on  one  side.     She  was  still  laughing  somewhat. 

"  I'm  sorry  I'm  so  very  funny,"  I  said,  severely. 

"The  idea,"  she  cried,  "of  asking  who  Miss  Runciman 
is!" 

"  She  may  be  a  very  great  person,  indeed,"  I  retorted, 
"  but  you  see  every  one  does  not  know  it." 

"  So  it  seems,"  was  the  response. 

The  girl  came  towards  me.  She  threw  herself  down  in  a 
chair  near  me,  and  stretched  her  arms  over  her  head  as  if 
she  were  weary. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "she's  a  actress,  and  she's  more'n  that; 
she's  a  opera  singer.  She's  a  primy  donna — A  number  one 
every  time." 

"Is  she?" 

I  suppose  my  face  must  have  shown  the  awe  I  felt.     I 


'what's  an  understudy?''  27 

had  never  been  to  an  opera  in  my  life.  But  we  seminary 
girls  had  acted  in  an  operetta  once,  and  I  had  taken  one  of 
the  leading  parts,  and  had  wrung  my  hands  and  sung  at  the 
very  top  of  my  voice.  The  local  papers  afterwards  said  that 
';  Miss  Wilhelmina  Armstrong  had  performed  her  difficult 
role  with  surprising  facility  and  effect."  I  bought  twenty 
copies  of  that  paper  and  sent  them  to  as  many  different 
people  with  deep,  black  strokes  around  the  above  remark. 

After  having  received  this  information,  I  asked  no  more 
questions.  I  gazed  out  into  the  street,  but  I  saw  nothing 
more  than  a  confused  jumble  of  men  and  women.  There 
was  a  sort  of  fearsome  glow  over  me  that  would  every  now 
and  then  give  place  to  a  delightful  chill.  It  was  a  very 
curious  and  wonderful  thing  that  a  "  primy  donna"  should 
have  come  to  our  house  and  have  bought  a  horse  of  father. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  that  I  sat  there  looking  from 
the  window  upon  the  streets  of  the  city.  I  saw  my  father 
come  along  with  his  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets  of  his 
duster.  His  hat  was  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  he  was 
whistling.  He  turned  in  between  the  fluted  pillars  of  the 
hotel  entrance.  After  a  while  I  became  aware  that  I  was 
watching  for  Miss  Runciman,  watching  with  all  the  curiosity 
and  eagerness  of  a  woman  who  has  not  yet  ceased  to  be  a 
child.     I  wondered  what  she  had  said  to  Cornelia. 

Some  one  touched  me  on  the  shoulder.  It  was  the  girl 
who  had  received  me.     I  started. 

"  She's  come,"  she  said.     "You're  to  go  in  there." 

There,  as  she  pointed,  I  noticed  a  door  opened  into  another 
room.  I  walked  towards  it.  Miss  Runciman  was  lying  back 
in  a  long  chair  with  a  fan  in  her  hand.  Her  hat  and  gloves 
were  thrown  on  the  bed  near. 

"  You're  a  good  child  to  wait,"  she  said.  "  Sit  down  there 
where  I  can  see  you." 


28  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  obeyed.  She  looked  at  me  up  and  down,  and  down 
and  up. 

"  I  believe  you  told  me  how  old  you  were — twenty- 
three  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  I'm  thirty-five,"  she  laughed,  and  then  she  sighed. 
"  At  thirty-five  a  woman  begins  to  remember  when  she  was 
young,  and  to  be  surprised  that  she  doesn't  feel  old.  And 
people,  in  speaking  of  her,  begin  to  say  '  she  was,'  instead 
of  '  she  is.'  " 

I  was  silent.  She  swung  her  fan  languidly,  her  half-shut 
eyes  fixed  on  my  face. 

"  The  critics  haven't  dared  to  say  '  she  was '  about  me  yet 
— but  they  are  waiting."  Then,  suddenly,  "  Haven't  you  a 
singing  voice,  Billy  ?" 

I  blushed  and  hesitated.     Finally  I  answered  : 

"  I  believe  I  can  carry  a  tune." 

"Of  course  you  can.  You  have  what  I  call  a  violin  face. 
Sing  me  something." 

As  I  was  silent,  she  said :  "  Anything,  you  know." 

Frightened  almost  out  of  my  senses,  I  piped  forth  feebly 
one  verse  of  the  first  thing  I  could  think  of,  and  that  hap- 
pened to  be  "  Come,  ye  disconsolate,"  which  I  had  sung  at 
the  funeral  of  old  Deacon  Marie  the  week  before,  at  the  re- 
quest of  "  the  relatives." 

My  listener  could  not  help  smiling  somewhat  as  I  went  on. 
When  I  had  finished  she  exclaimed  : 

"  What  a  dismal  little  thrush  it  is  !      Now  I'll  sing  it." 

She  sat  up  erect  and  began.  By  the  time  she  had  fin- 
ished the  line,  "Where'er  ye  languish,"  I  was  ready  to 
throw  myself  at  her  feet  and  become  hysterical  in  my  admi- 
ration. But  I  did  no  such  thing.  I  sat  perfectly  still,  my 
eyes  cast  down,  my  hands  clasped  tightly  in  my  lap.     And 


"  what's  an  understudy  ?"  29 

I  said  nothing  when  she  ceased  singing  at  the  end  of  the 
verse. 

"  You  have  a  good  natural  voice,"  she  remarked,  "  but  I 
don't  know  why  you  sing  coldly." 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  that,  either,  so  I  kept  still. 
"I  understand  that  you  are  frightened,"  she  went  on, 
more  kindly.  "  But  we  won't  talk  about  singing  any  more 
now.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  a  woman  of  whims ;  I  sup- 
pose every  one  who  amounts  to  anything  has  whims.  When 
I  saw  you  at  the  farm-house  the  other  day  I  took  a  fancy  to 
have  you  along  on  our  trip  this  summer.  It's  my  vacation. 
Another  whim  of  mine  is  to  go  on  a  long  carriage  trip— live 
in  the  carriage,  you  know — stop  here  and  there— get  ac- 
quainted with  nature.  And  I  want  to  make  sure  and  not 
have  any  one  about  who  will  jar.  I  hate  to  have  a  per- 
son near  me  who  doesn't  know  that  a  woman  may  have 
moods.  Such  people  ought  to  be  shot.  And  when  you  are 
going  on  forty,  and  haven't  become  reconciled  to  the  fact, 
it  does  seem  as  if  you  are  justified  in  killing  people  who 
jar.     Don't  you  think  so,  Billy  ?" 

She  spoke  in  the  most  genial  tone,  and  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  me  as  she  asked  the  last  question.  I  rose  and  went 
to  her  side.     She  placed  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"I  do  hope  you  haven't  a  lover,"  she  remarked,  and  I  said 
"  No." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  but  that  you  can  go  in  a  house  car- 
riage this  summer.  And  I  can  try  your  voice.  Do  you 
sing  in  your  village  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  sit  in  the  seats,"  I  answered. 

"The  seats?" 

"  The  choir ;  the  singers'  seats,  I  mean." 

She  laughed,  seemed  to  recover,  and  then  laughed  again. 

"  Forgive  me,  but  you  don't  know  what  a  picture  your 


3° 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


words  recall  to  me.  Now  you  may  go  home  and  get  a  wool 
frock  made.  We  are  not  going  to  be  stylish.  Be  ready  in 
a  week.     I'll  send  you  word." 

I  was  a  bit  nettled  at  the  way  I  was  dismissed.  I  walked 
to  the  open  door  of  the  room,  and  there  I  paused  to  say  : 

"  I  don't  think  my  mother  '11  be  willing  for  me  to  go." 

"  What !"  in  surprise. 

I  repeated  my  words.  Miss  Runciman  frowned  slightly; 
then  she  said,  "  I'll  write  to  her." 

I  understood  that  I  was  to  leave.  I  walked  through  the 
large  adjoining  apartment  and  did  not  notice  the  girl  there. 
I  was  so  confused  that  I  could  hardly  find  my  way  to  the 
public  parlor.  I  entered  that  room  rather  blindly,  and  was 
thankful  to  hear  a  hearty,  familiar  voice  saying: 

"Well,  Billy,  how  are  things?     Have  you  seen  her?" 

I  went  up  to  father  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  I've  seen  her.  But  I  don't  know  how  things  are," 
I  answered. 

He  drew  me  closer  to  the  window  and  looked  sharply  at 
me.  "What's  the  matter,  anyway?"  he  inquired.  "Your 
cheeks  are  jest  as  red  as  fire,  and  your  eyes  are  startin'  out 
of  your  head." 

"  I  guess  I'm  kind  of  excited,"  was  my  reply.  "  Can't 
we  go  home  right  away,  father?" 

"  I  guess  you  be  excited,"  he  responded.  "  I  s'pose  you 
know  she's  a  great  opery  singer  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it  now.  And  she  made  me  sing  to  her. 
Father,  let's  go  home  right  away." 

He  laughed  ;  he  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  what  I  said. 
He  put  more  questions,  and  when  I  told  him  that  Miss 
Runciman  wanted  me  to  go  with  her  in  her  house-carriage 
he  stared  and  exclaimed  : 

"  What  for,  I  sh'd  like  to  know  ?" 


"what's  an  understudy?'1  31 

"  Because,"  I  answered.  "  she  is  a  woman  of  wrhims." 

When  I  made  this  answer  I  wished  again  that  father 
wouldn't  laugh  so  much.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  was 
serious  enough  for  him  to  seem  concerned. 

He  put  his  big,  rough  finger  under  my  chin  and  lifted 
my  face  up.     Then  he  said  : 

"  Well,  Billy,  I  guess  you're  in  luck  this  time.  They 
say  she  makes  lots  of  money.  Of  course  you'll  go.  Meb- 
by  she's  taken  a  notion  to  you  'n'  will  leave  you  her 
prop'ty." 

After  this  remark  I  had  no  inclination  to  talk  anv  more 

J 

on  the  subject.  I  drew  back  and  walked  mechanically  to 
the  marble-topped  table  that  stood  in  the  room.  A  fan 
was  lying  there,  and  I  detected  the  odor  of  frangipanni. 
I  took  the  fan  and  unfurled  it,  not  thinking  what  I  was 
doins;.  At  that  moment  a  man  entered  from  the  main  hall 
and  came  forward,  hat  in  hand,  his  somewhat  bold  eyes — 
very  bright,  and,  as  I  had  thought  before,  full  of  authority 
— on  me  as  he  advanced. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  "  but  my  sister 
sent  me  back  for  her  fan  ;  she  was  quite  positive  she  had 
left  it  here.     Oh,  thank  you  !" 

I  awkwardly  held  out  the  fan,  provoked  with  myself  that 
I  had  been  found  with  it  in  my  hand. 

He  thrust  the  article  into  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat.  He 
glanced  at  my  father,  who  still  stood  at  the  window.  Then, 
without  any  hesitation,  he  walked  across  the  room  and  said  : 

"You'll  excuse  me,  I'm  sure,  for  speaking  to  you,  but 
that's  a  mighty  fine  colt  you've  brought  into  town.  I  saw  it 
at  the  stable  just  now.  I'm  looking  after  a  good  animal 
myself." 

How  animated  and  pleased  father  grew  on  the  instant ! 

"  If  you  want  a  good  hoss  's  ever  was  sold  in  this  State," 


32  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

he  said,  in  his  loud,  hearty  way,  "  why,  I'm  the  man  to  come 
to,  and  that's  a  fact  every  time." 

I  was  not  looking  at  father,  but  I'm  sure  he  winked  as  he 
made  this  assertion. 

"How  lucky  for  me!"  was  the  response.  "Where  do 
you  live?  A  man  that  knew  how  to  raise  that  gray  is  the 
man  to  pick  out  my  horse  for  me." 

The  gentleman  pulled  a  little  note-book  from  his  pocket 
and  held  his  pencil  poised  over  a  page  as  he  glanced  inter- 
rogatively at  my  father,  who  answered  that  anybody  out 
our  way  could  tell  where  "Lem"  Armstrong  lived  —  "out 
Worthing  way,  you  know  ;  cars  leave  you  within  five  mile ; 
lem  me  know  when  you're  coming  'n'  I'll  be  to  the  dee- 
po  with  as  good  a  piece  of  horse-flesh  's  you  ever  seen." 

"  Thanks  " — the  man  wrote  in  his  book — "  I'll  set  the 
time  now,"  he  said,  as  his  pencil  moved;  "we'll  say  on 
Wednesday,  the  morning  train.     Will  that  do  ?" 

"  First  rate." 

The  stranger  put  up  his  note-book  and  drew  out  a  card- 
case  from  which  he  extracted  a  bit  of  pasteboard,  his  dia- 
mond making  a  great  glitter  meanwhile. 

Father  took  the  card,  the  man  made  a  fine  bow  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Great  swell,  ain't  he?"  father  exclaimed,  searching  for 
his  glasses.  "  I  tell  you  what 'tis,  Billy  :  if  I  sell  another  hoss 
I'll  make  you  a  stunnin'  present ;  di'mond,  or  something." 

I  advanced  and  looked  at  the  card.    "  Mr.  Ronald  Mav- 
erick" was  what  I  read;  and  father  read  it  aloud  after  me  , 
as  if  he  were  spelling  the  words. 

"Wall,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  if  Mr.  Ronald  Maverick 
c'n  'ford  to  wear  a  ring  like  that,  he  c'n  'ford  to  pay  a  good 
stiff  price  for  his  hoss.  Now  le's  go  to  a  restaurant,  Billy, 
'n'  have  a  howlin'  good  dinner." 


"  what's  an  understudy  ?"  33 

So  we  went,  and  father  ate,  and  talked,  and  laughed ; 
and  he  winked  at  the  waiter,  and  was  in  extremely  good 
spirits. 

As  we  were  on  our  way  home,  while  the  sun  gradually 
went  lower  and  lower  down  the  clear  blue  sky,  father  ques- 
tioned me  more  about  Miss  Runciman,  and  seemed  to  have 
no  doubt  as  to  my  going  with  her. 

"  You'll  be  a  reg'lar  fool  if  you  don't  go,"  he  said,  in  his 
good-natured  way.     He  was  almost  always  good-natured. 

Mother  was  in  the  yard  when  we  drove  down  the  road. 
The  bright  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  was  on  her,  and  I 
felt  a  sudden,  strange  pang  as  I  saw  how  delicately  lovely 
her  face  was,  with  its  large,  mysterious-looking  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  be  able  to  see  strange  things. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  this  question  came  to  me  : 
"  How  did  she  come  to  marry  this  man  ?" 

Immediately  the  query  seemed  to  me  so  disrespectful 
and  disloyal  to  them  both  that  I  hastened  to  put  it  from 
me.  But  it  had  come  once,  and  I  had  a  curious  feeling  that 
it  would  come  again  and  again. 

It  is  a  significant  time  in  the  life  of  a  daughter  when  she 
begins  to  judge  her  parents,  not  as  her  parents  merely,  but 
as  human  individuals  like  herself. 

"  Hullo,  mother  !"  called  out  father.  "  I've  brought  Billy 
back  this  time ;  but  mebby  next  time  I  sha'n't  be  so  lucky." 

He  pulled  in  the  horse  and  I  sprang  out  of  the  carriage. 
Mother  extended  her  hand  quickly  and  took  hold  of  mine. 
She  smiled  rather  a  wistful  smile,  and  she  kissed  me,  which 
she  very  rarely  did. 

"  I  can't  be  thankful  enough  you've  come,"  she  said, 
softly.  "  I  don't  know  why  'tis,  but  it  seems  's  if  I'd  got  you 
back  from  something  dreadful." 

The  horse  and  carriage  had  gone  on  into  the  barn.     We 

3 


34  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

could  hear  father  whistling  as  he  unharnessed.  Mother 
led  me  on  into  the  orchard,  which  was  at  the  other  side 
of  the  yard. 

"  Lowizy's  bakin'  the  biscuits,"  she  said.  "  Ive  been  so 
nervous  'bout  you,  Wilhelmina,  that  it  was  all  I  could  do 
to  hold  myself  together.     What  'd  that  woman  want?" 

I  hesitated.     I  held  mother's  hard,  thin  hand  fast. 

"  I  thought  you  liked  her  when  she  was  here  the  other 
day,"  I  responded. 

"  So  I  did  ;  so  I  did,"  she  answered,  quickly.  "  Some- 
how she  made  me  feel  so  kind  of  satisfied  with  myself,  'n'  's 
if  I  was  real  bright  'n'  smart.     What  is  she,  anyway  ?" 

"  She's  a  great  opera  singer,  what  they  call  a  prima 
donna." 

I  spoke  proudly.     Mother  looked  at  me  fearfully. 

"Oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  whisper.  "One  of  them  opera 
singers  ?  Did  she  make  you  sing,  Sis?  You've  got  a  beau- 
tiful voice,  I  think." 

"Well,  you're  mistaken  about  my  voice,"  I  answered. 
"  She  did  not  care  for  it.  And  she  says  it  is  cold.  She 
wants  me  to  go  with  her  this  summer  in  a  house  carriage. 
She  says  she  has  whims.     She's  got  a  whim  to  have  me." 

Mother  hurried  me  along  down  the  slope  of  the  orchard 
until  we  were  under  the  old  chestnut-tree  and  out  of  sight 
of  any  one.  There  she  stopped.  She  laid  a  hand  on  each 
of  my  shoulders.  A  glow  of  beautiful,  solemn  light  came 
from  her  eyes. 

"  My  daughter,"  she  said,  impressively,  "  you  mustn't  go 
with  that  woman.  She  won't  do  you  any  good.  No — no. 
I  see  a  picture  of  your  life.     I  see — " 

"Oh,  mother— don't!     Don't!"  I  cried. 

Some  great  wave  of  mystery  seemed  to  be  rising  higher 
and  higher  in  my  soul.     I  couldn't  bear  to  have  her  go  on. 


"what's  an  understudy?"  35 

I  flung  my  arms  about  her  neck  and  leaned  my  head  down 
on  her  shoulder.  I  was  a  tall  girl,  and  she  seemed  very 
frail  to  me  then. 

"  We'll  pray  about  it,"  she  said,  in  a  few  moments,  during 
which  she  stroked  my  hair  softly,  for  my  hat  had  fallen  off. 

"  You  know  it  may  help  us  to  pray,  and  something  has 
got  to  help  us.  I've  passed  a  sorrowful  day.  All  the  time 
I've  seen  my  little  girl  drifting  away  from  me,  going  into 
bad  places  that  glittered  and  looked  like  good  places.  Yes, 
we'll  pray  right  here.  Wilhelmina,  kneel  down  close  to 
me." 

Mother  knelt  down  on  the  grass,  and  I  placed  myself 
beside  her.  She  put  her  arm  close  about  me  and  drew  me 
to  her.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open  and  fixed  on  the  bright 
western  sky  where  the  sun  was  slowly  going  down.  The 
brilliance  of  the  sky  dazzled  me,  but  it  did  not  seem  to 
dazzle  her. 

"The  Lord  is  coming,"  she  said,  at  last,  in  a  solemn 
voice. 

I  started  in  uncontrollable  terror.  I  tried  to  look  straight 
into  the  glory  of  the  heavens.  But  I  could  not,  and  again 
I  hid  my  face  on  her  shoulder.  Why  did  she  think  the 
Lord  was  coming  ?  I  was  afraid  of  the  Lord  ;  I  did  not 
want  Him  to  come. 

"  On  pillars  of  white  fire,''  she  said,  in  a  half-whisper, 
"  and  He  will  take  us,  or  He  will  leave  us  forever.  For 
years  I've  looked  for  Him — " 

"  Mother,"  I  said,  with  my  lips  close  to  her  cheek,  "  you 
said  you  were  going  to  pray." 

"Yes,  so  I  did— so  I  did." 

She  held  me  closer  yet,  but  she  did  not  pray  aloud.  I 
remained  motionless,  my  heart  filled  with  awe  and  a  kind 
of  delightful  fear  of  I  knew  not  what.     I  could  feel  mothers 


36  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

heart  beat,  pressed  as  I  was  against  her,  and  that  it  grew 
to  a  calmer  movement,  as  the  moments  passed. 

The  sun  had  just  dropped  below  the  pine  ridge  when  we 
rose  from  our  knees.  Mother  was  clasping  my  hand  tightly, 
and  she  dropped  it  and  held  my  face  a  moment  between 
her  palms,  smiling  at  me  with  a  sort  of  beatified  smile.  I 
didn't  know  why  this  smile  should  make  me  cry  out: 
"  Mother,  don't  you  worry.  I  won't  go  with  that  woman. 
At  least" — here  something  tugged  at  my  consciousness — 

11  T 55 

"  Stop  !  Stop  !•'  she  said.  "  Don't  make  any  rash  prom- 
ises.    You'll  be  in  God's  hands  wherever  you  are." 

I  did  not  understand  why  I  should  be  aware  of  a  feeling 
of  rebellion  against  being  in  God's  hands,  and  a  conviction 
that  I  could  take  care  of  myself  quite  well.  I  had  a  sense 
of  being  a  prisoner.  My  wings  were  grown  ;  I  wanted  to 
try  them.  I  knew  I  was  wicked  —  my  consciousness  of 
wickedness  made  me  indignant. 

"  Serissy  !  Serissy!     Where  are  you?" 
It  was  Aunt  Lowizy's  voice  coming  stridently  across  the 
still  orchard  spaces. 

"  Yes,  yes — here  I  am,"  was  the  answer ;  and  the  ex- 
pression of  gratified  resignation  faded  from  mother's  face, 
leaving  it  old  and  tired. 

"  Come  in  to  supper  right  away,"  returned  the  voice. 
"  Lemuel's  ready,  'n'  the  biscuit  are  out  'n'  gittin'  cold." 

We  hurried  back  to  the  house.  Though  the  doors  were 
open,  the  kitchen  felt  hot  and  close,  and  there  was  a  strong 
smell  of  boiling  tea.  We  always  boiled  our  tea,  for  father 
said  there  wa'n't  any  taste  to  it  unless  it  had  had  a  good 
bile  on  ;  'n'  if  bilin'  brought  out  the  pizon,  why,  he'd  resk  it. 
He'd  drunk  biled  tea  for  more'n  forty  years,  so  he  guessed 
'twas  mighty  slow  pizon,  anyway. 


"what's  an  understudy?"  37 

This  was  a  remark  he  usually  made  when  we  had  company 
to  a  meal,  and  the  almost  black  decoction  was  poured  into 
the  cups. 

"  Billy  says  they  don't  have  such  lookin'  stuff  up  to  Had- 
ley,"  he  would  say;  "but  then  we  folks  that  'ain't  had  'ad- 
vantages' can  drink  this.  Mother,  I  wish  you'd  turn  me 
another  cup,  will  ye  ?" 

I  thought  that  every  one  who  heard  father  must  for  the 
moment  think  they  liked  this  beverage  better  than  anything 
else.  I  remember  once  overhearing  two  women  who  had 
been  spending  the  afternoon  with  us.  They  were  putting 
on  their  things,  which  I  had  just  brought  from  the  spare 
bedroom.  I  had  gone  back  into  the  bedroom  to  find  a  miss- 
ing veil. 

"  What  a  dretful  pleasant  man  Mr.  Armstrong  is  !"  said 
one  of  them. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  was  the  response,  "  and  my  husband  says 
he'd  ruther  be  cheated  by  '  Lem '  Armstrong  than  git  the 
best  of  a  bargain  with  anybody  else.  'N'  I  don't  wonder. 
I  don't  think  his  wife  'predates  how  good  he  is  in  his  fam'ly. 
I  tell  you  I  don't  much  care  what  a  man  is  out  round,  if  he's 
only  good  in  his  fam'ly." 

What  further  conversation  there  might  have  been  on  the 
subject  of  their  hosts  I  nipped  in  the  bud  by  entering  the 
room  with  the  veil,  which  I  carefully  tied  around  the  head 
where  it  belonged,  sternly  putting  away  the  desire  to  draw 
the  article  chokingly  tight. 

Yes,  father  was  a  very  pleasant  man ;  but  of  course  he 
didn't  cheat. 

After  supper  that  night  he  bade  me  to  come  out  to  the 
barn  and  hold  the  lantern  for  him.  But  when  I  asked  him, 
after  we  had  reached  the  stable,  where  I  should  take  the 
lantern,  he  sat  down  on  the  meal-chest,  picked  up  a  straw 


38  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

from  the  top  of  it,  and  began  to  chew  it,  as  he  said :  "  Stan' 
right  where  you  be  with  it.  What's  your  mother  been  say- 
in'  to  ye  down  in  the  orchard?" 

As  I  hesitated  he  went  on  :  "  You  needn't  hold  back 
nothin1.  Your  mother'n  I  are  one,  you  know,  and,"  wink- 
ing, "  I'm  the  one." 

The  light  of  the  lantern  was  directly  on  his  face,  and  I 
had  a  strange  fancy  that  I  had  never  seen  his  wink  quite  so 
plainly. 

"  Speak  up,  Billy,  that's  a  good  girl,"  he  said. 

"  She  didn't  say  much  of  anything,"  I  replied. 

"  She  don't  want  you  to  go  with  that  woman,  does  she  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  she  does."  He  leaned  forward  and 
took  hold  of  my  arm. 

"Now  look  here,  Billy,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "You 
needn't  mind  bothering  'bout  what  she  says  in  a  case  like 
this.  She's  one  of  the  best  women  in  the  world,  but  she's 
got  mighty  queer  notions — I  call  'em  Advent  notions.  You 
go  with  the  opera  singer.  'Tain't  best  to  throw  away 
chances.  You  go  with  her,  if  she  sticks  to  the  idea.  But 
she  may  forgit  all  about  it.  That's  what  I'm  afraid  of,  that 
she'll  forgit.  Lord  !  didn't  she  ride  that  colt  good  ?  You 
go  with  her.  Here,  give  me  the  lantern.  Run  in  now,  'n' 
you  needn't  say  I've  said  anything." 

I  obeyed.  When  I  entered  the  kitchen  where  mother 
was  washing  dishes  she  looked  at  me  anxiously,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

The  next  few  days  were  full  of  a  feverish  interest  to  me. 
Every  day  I  watched  father  when  he  came  from  his  drive  to 
the  post-office.  But  I  tried  not  to  care  whether  Miss  Run- 
ciman  wrote. 

It  was  on  the  fifth  day  that  he  tossed  a  letter  into  moth- 
er's lap.     She  turned  pale  and  clutched  at  it.     I  held  myself 


i(  what's  an  understudy  ?"  39 

perfectly  still  where  I  sat  by  the  window.  I  would  not  even 
look  at  the  group  in  the  room,  but  gazed  persistently  out  at 
the  horse  and  buggy,  which  were  standing  in  the  yard. 

But  I  heard  the  sound  of  the  tearing  open  of  the  envelope 
and  the  unfolding  of  the  paper. 

"  No,  no !"  exclaimed  mother  sharply,  after  a  moment. 

"  Now,  Serissy,"  said  father,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  shall  be 
dretful  sorry  to  have  you  act  foolish.     Lem  me  read  it." 

He  had  got  his  glasses  on.  He  read  aloud,  in  sort  of 
half-voice,  but  he  read  so  slowly  that  I  understood. 

"To  Billy  s  Mother  : 

"  My  dear  Madam, — Your  daughter  thinks  you  may  not  allow  her 
to  spend  a  month  or  two  with  me  in  driving  about  the  country.  Let 
me  explain  to  you  that  when  I  saw  her  I  immediately  had  a  fancy  that 
I  might  be  able  to  train  her  to  be  my  understudy — if  she  had  a  voice, 
and  I  was  nearly  positive,  from  hearing  her  speak,  that  she  did  have  a 
voice.  But  it's  cold,  and  of  course  it  isn't  trained,  though  she  sits  '  in 
the  seats.'  I  used  to  sit  in  the  seats  a  thousand  years  ago.  The  matter 
resolves  itself  into  this  simply.  Let  the  child  come  with  me  for  my 
summer  vacation  ;  I  shall  make  up  my  mind  as  to  her  capabilities,  and 
if  by  fall  I  don't  think  she  has  the  required  gifts,  she  will  have  had  a 
pleasant  summer,  I  hope,  and  can  go  back  home.  I  needn't  tell  you  that 
I  am  very  sanguine  that  she  will,  in  time,  be  what  I  want.  I  think, 
now  that  you  understand  the  matter,  there  can  be  no  objections  to  her 
joining  me  some  time  next  week.  I  will  send  you  more  definite  word 
shortly.  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Leonora  Runciman." 

As  soon  as  father  had  read  the  name  he  lifted  his  eyes, 
saw  me,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Hullo  !  There's  Billy  herself.  Billy,  what's  an  under- 
study?" 

"I  don't  know." 

I  rose  and  came  forward.  I  saw  that  father  was  in  great 
spirits.     I  looked  fearfully  at  mother,  and  she  met  my  gaze 


4o 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


with  such  beseeching  eyes  that  I  ran  to  her  and  dropped 
down  on  my  knees  beside  her,  leaning  my  arms  across  her 
lap. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  go  ?"  I  whispered. 

Before  she  could  answer  father  said  :  "  Now,  Serissy  !" 

Mother  seemed  to  shudder,  and  father  said  :  "  I'm  'fraid 
you're  gettin'  nervous,  Serissy.  Don't  you  go  'n'  begin  to 
worry  now." 

She  drew  herself  together  as  she  met  father's  gaze. 


Ill 

MISS    COBB    RELATES 

I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  stay  in  the  room.  There 
was  that  sense  of  something  in  the  air  which  I  cannot  de- 
scribe, and  which  surprised  and  excited  me  ;  and,  more  than 
that,  I  had  a  curious  and  confused  sense  of  disillusion- 
ment. I  gazed  at  father,  who  did  not  glance  at  me.  He 
was  looking  at  mother ;  his  eyes  had  a  peculiar,  contracted 
appearance,  and  I  had  never  noticed  before  that  they  were 
so  near  together. 

I  walked  towards  the  door,  but  just  as  my  hand  was  on 
the  latch  father  said,  quickly  : 

'''You  needn't  go,  Billy.  [Mother  'n'  I  ain't  goin'  to  talk 
any  secrets  from  you.     Se'  down." 

I  obeyed,  but  I  longed  to  get  away.  Mother  was  now 
sitting  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  cast  down. 
I  thought  as  I  looked  at  her  that  I  had  never  seen  her  face 
so  cold  and  expressionless ;  and  I  had  a  sudden  terror  at 
her  remoteness.  I  wanted  to  hurry  to  her  side,  but  I  knew 
father  would  think  I  was  very  silly  ;  so  I  kept  quiet. 

He  had  the  letter  still  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  flapping 
it  gently  against  his  trousers-leg  as  he  talked. 

''When  you  really  come  to  think  it  all  over,  Serissy,"  he 
said,  "  you  ain't  goin'  to  stan'  in  the  child's  way ;  are  you, 
now  ?"' 

Mother's    face    quivered    slightly.      I    thought    she   was 


42  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

going  to  speak,  but  she  did  not;  and  she  did  not  raise 
her  eyes. 

"  You  see,  Serissy,  it's  jest  about  here,  I  call  it :  We've 
always  be'n  real  proud  'cause  Billy  could  sing,  but  we  never 
felt  we  knew  exactly  how  to  have  her  voice  eddicated ;  'n' 
so  we  ain't  done  nothin'  about  it.  But  here's  Providence 
steppin'  right  in  'n'  openin'  the  way.  Do  you  feel  like 
stan'in'  in  the  way  of  Providence  ?" 

"  Not  if  'tis  Providence." 

Mother  did  not  raise  her  eyes  as  she  answered,  though 
I  was  watching  eagerly  to  meet  her  glance. 

That  sense  of  remoteness  from  her  still  continued,  and 
it  made  my  heart  sink  lower  and  lower. 

"  I  guess  we  sha'n't  quarrel  about  that,"  returned  father, 
in  his  jovial  way.  "  Now,  if  you'd  jest  let  Billy  know  that 
you  was  all  right  on  the  question  of  her  goin',  why,  then, 
we'll  call  the  thing  settled;  sha'n't  we,  Serissy?" 

Mother  did  not  speak  for  a  moment ;  then  she  turned 
towards  me,  but  still  without  raising  her  eyes.. 

"It's  all  settled,  Miny,"  she  said;  "you're  to  go  with 
Miss  Runciman." 

"That's  the  talk,  mother!"  exclaimed  father;  "now 
you're  sensible !"  He  went  to  her,  and  gave  her  a  loud 
kiss  on  the  forehead.  Then  he  turned  to  me,  and  said  : 
"You  never  '11  be  so  pretty  as  your  mother,  child;  you 
needn't  never  expect  it,  either.     Now  you  c'n  run  away." 

As  I  turned  to  go  I  saw  him  stoop  and  take  mother's 
hand,  and  her  fingers  closed  around  his. 

I  went  up  to  my  room,  a  sense  of  elation  taking  the  place 
of  every  other  feeling.  I  began  to  look  over  my  very 
modest  wardrobe,  my  heart  beating  delightfully  as  I  did  so. 

Miss  Runciman  had  mentioned  a  wool  frock  as  some- 
thing necessary.     How  curious  it  would  be  to  drive  about 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  43 

and  stop  where  one  pleased,  and  to — but  I  could  not  go 
on  coherently.  My  imagination  ran  wild.  And  how  that 
woman  had  sung  "Come,  ye  disconsolate,"  after  my  poor 
little  piping!  What  could  an  "  understudy  "  be?  And 
where  should  we  go  ? 

I  left  my  gowns  on  the  bed  and  sat  down  by  the  window. 
I  extinguished  my  light  first,  so  that  I  might  see  into  the 
beautiful  night ;  but  I  remember  that  I  did  not  think  much 
of  the  beautiful  night.  My  thoughts  were  galloping  hither 
and  thither  into  the  future,  and  the  color  of  rose  was  over 
everything. 

At  last  I  left  the  window  and  put  my  frocks  back  into  the 
closet.  It  was  already  late  for  our  household.  The  June 
days  were  long,  and  it  had  been  dark  now  more  than  two 
hours.  There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  down-stairs,  so  I 
undressed  and  crept  into  bed.  But,  of  course,  I  did  not  go 
to  sleep.  I  lay  staring  at  the  grayish  patch  in  the  wall,  which 
was  the  window. 

My  eyes  were  thus  when  the  door  moved  softly.  I  in- 
stantly dropped  my  eyelids,  and  did  not  stir  as  steps  drew 
near.  Some  one — I  did  not  need  to  look  to  know  it  was  my 
mother — stooped  over  the  bed.  I  heard  a  long-drawn  breath. 
I  was  longing  to  let  her  know  that  I  was  not  asleep,  but 
something  made  me  keep  very  still.  Was  it  that  I  was 
afraid,  if  I  spoke  to  her,  I  should  suddenly  tell  her  that  I 
would  not  go  ?  And  I  wanted  to  go — yes,  I  longed  to  go. 
Something  brilliant  and  dazzling  was  beckoning  to  me  and 
smiling.  Mother  had  consented,  and  father  had  more  than 
consented.     I  would  keep  still. 

Presently  mother  sighed  again.  I  thought  she  whispered, 
"God  bless  the  child,"  and  then  she  noislessly  left  the 
room.     I  turned  and  began  to  sob  into  my  pillow. 

The  days  went  quickly  enough  after  that,  and  with  every 


44  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

day  I  fancied  mother's  spirits  seemed  to  rise,  for  every  day 
made  greater  the  probability  that  Miss  Runciman,  being  a 
woman  of  whims,  had  forgotten  her  last  whim.  And  all  the 
time  I  wondered,  among  other  things,  what  an  understudy 
might  be. 

It  was  ten  days  later.  June  was  getting  well  on,  and  I  had 
now  nearly  given  up  the  hope  of  going  anywhere  in  a  house- 
wagon  with  that  great  opera  singer. 

Miss  Rachel  Cobb,  who  lived  on  the  river  road,  was  spend- 
ing the  day  at  our  house.  Miss  Cobb  was  fat,  and  she  had 
eyes  as  small  and  bright  as  a  pig's  eyes;  and  a  little 
mouth,  with  protruding  teeth  that  made  a  kind  of  snout  of 
the  lower  part  of  her  face.  When  she  talked,  which  was 
nearly  all  the  time,  her  jaws  clacked  and  snapped  as  if  they 
were  going  by  a  sort  of  machinery  that  had  been  wound  up, 
and  that  was  not  at  all  near  to  running  down.  Father,  in 
the  privacy  of  his  own  home,  called  her  "  piggie-wiggie," 
and  said  that  it  was  a  great  mistake  that  she  hadn't  some 
front  legs  and  a  little  tail  with  a  curl  in  it. 

Miss  Cobb  often  referred  to  the  fact  that  she  had  never 
married;  and  always  said  that  if  Timothy  Hopkins  had 
lived  she  was  sure  he  would  have  married  her,  and  that 
they  would  have  been  the  happiest  couple  in  the  world. 

"  Not,"  she  explained,  "  that  Tim  had  ever  paid  her  no 
attention,  but  that  he  was  so  homely  there  wouldn't  no  girl 
under  the  canopy  but  her  have  him." 

Here  she  would  chuckle,  and  her  jaws  would  click,  and 
her  eye-glasses  fall  off. 

When  she  told  this  at  our  house  father  would  roar  out  his 
laugh,  and  say  that  Hopkins  was  the  unluckiest  man  in 
creation  because  he  was  dead. 

Here  was  Miss  Cobb  sitting  near  the  open  end  window 
making  some  new  sleeves  to  put  into  her  brown  flannelette 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  45 

"body."     She  always  spoke  of  a  dress  waist  as  a  "body," 
and  the  word  never  failed  to  affect  me  uncomfortably. 

It  was  known  throughout  the  neighborhood  that  Rachel 
Cobb's  rule  was  to  spend  three  days  of  every  week  visit- 
ing. It  will  be  perceived  that  such  a  rule,  closely  adhered 
to  as  it  was  in  this  case  in  a  country  town,  will  bring  a  per- 
son with  frequency  to  every  house.  But  she  did  not  stop 
at  every  house.  She  openly  acknowledged  that  she  couldn't 
bear  to  visit  where  "the  victuals  wasn't  torrable  good;  for 
her  stomach  wasn't  that  kind  that  could  bear  everything 
tossed  into  it  as  if  a  person  was  nothin'  more'n  a  hog. 
She'd  got  a  digestion  now,  V  she  meant  to  keep  it,"  and 
so  on — clack,  clack,  snap,  snap. 

"  There's  b'en  a  lot  happenin'  this  week,"  said  Rachel, 
as  she  ran  her  "  shears  "  through  her  silesia  lining.  "  I  d' 
know  's  you  have  heard  nothin',  have  you,  Serissy  ?  You're 
one  of  them  kind  that  don't  ever  seem  to  know  no  kind  of 
news,  even  if  you  live  right  in  the  midst  of  it." 

Aunt  Lowizy,  who  was  washing  dishes  in  the  kitchen, 
and  continually  running  to  the  sitting-room  door  with  a 
dish  and  a  towel  in  her  hand,  now  appeared,  passing  her 
towel  around  and  around  a  blue-edged  pie-plate. 

"  That's  jes'  so,  Rachel,"  she  remarked.  "  Serissy  don't 
brins  home  no  news,  even  when  she  goes  to  the  ladies' 
aid,  up  to  the  vestry.  News  rolls  off  her  as  if  'twas  water, 
'n'  she  was  a  leather  shoe  all  tallered  up  for  winter." 

At  this  the  two  women  laughed,  and  mother  smiled. 
She  was  slicing  potatoes  for  the  "shin  stew"  for  our  din- 
ner. Her  hands  did  not  pause  in  their  work,  but  Miss 
Cobb  laid  down  her  shears  and  contemplated  her  hostess. 
After  a  moment  she  said  : 

"There  was  Lyddy  Lowndes,  over  t'other  side  the  gris'- 
mill.     She  was  a  Adventist.  'n'  she  was  jes'  so.     Some  Ad- 


46  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

ventists  ain't  more'n  half  on  this  earth,  anyway;  they're 
so  taken  up  listening  for  Gabriel's  trump  they  can't  hear 
much  else.  I  don't  mean  no  offence,  Serissy,"  resuming 
her  shears.  "  I'm  sure  if  I  was  expectin'  the  trump  to 
sound,  I  shouldn't  one  grain  mind  who  was  married  or 
'  dead.  But  I've  noticed  that  when  you're  lookin'  for  Gabriel 
he  don't  never  come." 

The  shears  slashed  through  an  extent  of  flannelette. 

"  But  you  'ain't  told  your  news,  Rachel." 

It  was  Aunt  Lowizy  who  spoke  ;  she  had  darted  back 
to  the  sink,  put  down  her  dried  plate,  taken  an  undried 
one,  and  darted  back  again  to  the  door. 

"  That's  a  fact,  so  I  'ain't " — click,  clack,  with  jaws  and 
shears.  "  Wall,  'twas  las'  night.  I'd  eat  some  hull  corn 
for  my  supper  over  to  Lorin  Waite's ;  'n'  either  there  wa'n't 
sody  enough  put  in  it,  or  else  'twa'n't  cooked  enough  ;  any- 
way, it  didn't  set  well,  'n'  I  was  up  with  my  stomach  pretty 
much  all  the  time  from  ten  o'clock  till  daylight  broke. 
'Tain't  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  up  with  your  stomach  when 
you  ought  to  be  gittin'  your  rest. 

"  'Bout  'leven  I  was  sippin'  some  pain  -  killer,  when  I 
heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  'n'  laughin',  'n'  talkin'.  Some- 
how the  laughin'  'n'  talkin'  didn't  seem  jes'  like  folks'  round 
here.  I  wropped  a  shawl  tight  over  my  shoulders,  'n'  went 
to  the  front  door.  There  was  a  great  big  carriage  comin' 
awful  slow  'long  the  river  road,  jest  about  by  the  falls.  You 
know  the  scenery  there  is  first-rate,  'n'  folks  come  from 
quite  a  ways  off  to  see  the  falls,  V  the  gorge,  'n'  the  moun- 
tains back  there.  I  think  myself  it  does  look  well,  'specially 
when  the  sun  or  the  moon  is  risin'  and  shinin'  on  the  falls. 
It  was  the  moon  that  was  shinin'  on  the  water  now ;  'n'  it 
glittered ;  the  mountain  was  black  where  'twa'n't  in  the 
light,  'n'  everything  was  kind  of  strikin'. 


MISS    COBE    RELATES  47 

"  My  house  is  near  enough  so  I  c'n  watch  the  excursion- 
ists that  come  from  off,  V  see  how  odd  they  look  when 
they're  starin'  at  the  scenery.  Scenery  does  affect  some 
folks  queer  enough  sometimes,  I  tell  you. 

"  This  was  a  wagon  different  from  what  I'd  ever  seen ; 
it  had  two  great  horses  to  it,  'n'  when  it  stopped  a  tall 
woman  got  out  and  walked  slow  towards  the  edge  of  the 
river.  Somebody  in  the  wagon  seemed  to  want  to  come, 
too,  but  the  woman  flung  her  hand  at  them — not  like  any 
one  else  flinging  her  hand — and  she  said  :  '  Come  not,  at  your 
peril !  I  would  be  alone !'  That's  exactly  what  she  said, 
and  then  she  laughed,  and  somebody  inside  the  wagon 
laughed,  too. 

"  I  guess  I  kinder  forgot  'bout  my  stomach,  for  I  walked 
along  in  the  black  shadder  of  them  hackmatack  trees  till  I 
was  considerable  near.  The  wagon  was  something  like  a 
photygraph  car,  you  know,  only  han'somer.  There  was  a 
funnel  runnin'  out  of  the  roof  at  one  end.  The  harness  on 
the  horses  glittered  like  anything,  'n'  when  they  shook  their 
heads  some  little  bells  jingled. 

"  I  stood  in  the  deepest  shadder,  V  watched.  That 
woman  had  gone  down  to  the  river's  edge,  'n'  jes'  then  the 
moon  had  got  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  'n'  struck  on  her, 
'n'  on  the  falls.  I  could  see  her  good  V  plain — tall,  with  a 
red  cloak  fallin'  from  her  shoulders,  'n'  nothin'  on  her  head. 
I  s'pose  she's  a  play-actor,  or  something  of  the  kind.  Jest 
as  the  moonlight  reached  her,  she  put  up  her  clasped  hands 
and  began  to  sing.  I  will  own  up  that  I  shivered  up  'n' 
down  my  backbone,  'n'  gooseflesh  crept  all  over  me.  I 
tried  to  hear  what  she  said.  It  sounded  like  ( Caster 
deever — caster  deever.'  I  couldn't  make  out  nothin'  more. 
Some  foreign  language,  I  guess. 

"  She  only  sung  two  or  three  lines.     Then  somebody  on 


48  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  back  steps  of  the  wagon,  where  I  couldn't  see,  clapped 
hands,  'n'  hollered  '  Brarver !'  though  there  ain't  no  sense  to 
a  word  like  that;  but  what  c'n  you  expect  of  folks  that'll 
travel  'round  in  a  cart  with  horses  with  bells  on  'em  ? 

"  The  woman  kep'  stan'in'  there  s'  long  that  I  began  to 
be  shivery.  So  I  went  back  real  ca'ful  to  my  house.  I 
took  some  more  pain-killer  to  keep  the  cold  from  strikin'  in. 
I  was  jest  thinkin'  I'd  run  out  agin,  jest  to  see  what  they 
was  up  to,  when  steps  come  to  the  front  door  V  then  a 
knock.  I've  lived  too  long  all  by  myself  to  git  frightened 
very  easy.  So  I  marched  right  to  the  door  'n'  opened  it  a 
teenty  crack.  There  was  the  woman  who'd  been  singin' 
1  Caster  deever.'  You  ain't  'fraid  of  nothin'  but  a  man, 
anyway,  so  I  flung  open  the  door  and  told  her  to  walk  in. 
She  stepped  inside,  and  said  she  seen  a  light,  so  she  vent- 
ured to  come.  I  said  yes,  I'd  been  up  with  my  stomach, 
'n'  had  to  take  something.  She  gave  me  the  curiousest  look, 
'n'  said  for  her  part  she  'didn't  know  which  of  her  internal 
orgins  she'd  ruther  be  up  with.'  " 

Having  reached  this  point  in  her  narrative,  Rachel  Cobb 
paused  as  if  she  were  leaving  the  chapter  to  be  continued 
at  some  indefinite  future  time.  She  lifted  the  old  flannel- 
ette waist  and  contemplated  it  absorbedly.  Aunt  Lowizy 
had  come  in  and  sat  down  with  her  towel  and  plate  in  her 
hands.  Mother  had  stopped  paring  potatoes,  and  her  pale 
face  was  turned  steadily  towards  her  guest. 

"  I  declare !"  cried  Aunt  Lowizy.  "  That's  the  same 
woman,  I  do  believe,  Serissy  !" 

Rachel  glanced  shrewdly  from  one  to  the  other.  As  for 
me,  I  did  not  move,  and  I  didn't  take  my  eyes  from  Miss 
Cobb. 

"Well  ?"  said  mother. 

"Oh,  there  ain't  so  very  much  more  to  tell,"  responded 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  49 

Rachel.  ''The  woman  had  come  in,  'n'  I  didn't  make  no 
reply  to  that  remark  of  her'n.  I  was  sorter  nettled.  I  felt 
as  if  she  was  laughin'  at  me,  though  she  was  solemn  as  an 
owl. 

"  '  I  thought/  said  she,  the  next  thing,  '  that  p'raps  I 
could  get  some  milk  here,  or  cream,  for  our  coffee,  'n'  mebby 
a  fresh  egg  or  two.     We're  jes'  goin'  to  have  supper.' 

" '  Supper  !'  I  cried  out,  '  at  this  time  er  night  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,'  as  easy  's  you  please ;  '  you  know  tastes  vary !' 

"  <  I  sh'd  think  they  did,'  I  says. 

"  '  Can  you  let  me  have  any  milk  ?'  she  asked. 

"Now,  you  know  I  'ain't  kep'  no  cow  sence  more'n  two 
year  ago,  V  I  told  her  I  hadn't ;  'n'  how  I  come  to  sell  it, 
V  not  git  another.  That's  quite  a  long  story,  you  know. 
Serissy ;  V  I  thought  she  oughter  know  that  cow  was  gar- 
gety ;  'n'  how  I  felt  sure  she  got  the  garget  'cause  I  fed  her 
too  much  meal  that  last  winter  I  kep'  her. 

"  When  I  got  through  the  woman  said  she  thanked  me 
warmly  for  the  tale  of  the  gargety  cow  — I'm  giving  her 
very  words — 'n'  she  hoped  the  cow  wasn't  havin'  as  much 
meal  at  the  present  time. 

" '  No,'  I  said,  '  I  guess  she  wa'n't,  for  she'd  been  put  in 
the  beef  barrel  'n'  et  up  long  ago.' 

'•Then  I  ast  her  to  se'  down.  She  said  she'd  ruther 
stand ;  V  had  I  any  milk  I  could  let  her  have  ?  She  had 
been  the  solemnest-lookin'  bein'  you  ever  seen,  but  I  felt 
eggsackly  's  if  she  was  laughin'  at  me  the  wust  kind  of  a 
way ;  and  it  made  me  mad. 

"  I  ripped  out  that  I  didn't  use  nothin'  but  condensed 
milk  sence  I  sold  my  cow.  I'd  got  'bout  a  table-spoonful 
of  that  if  she  wanted  it.  No  basket  of  chips  was  ever 
pleasanter  V  she  was.  She  explained  that  she  was  already 
the  owner  of  several  cans  of  condensed  milk,  but,  bein   in 


4 


r0  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  country,  and  so  forth — and  then  she  ast  if  my  hens  had 
become  gargety  and  been  sold,  or  did  I  have  some  eggs  ? 

"  I  got  her  half  a  dozen  eggs,  'n'  I  charged  her  -twenty- 
five  cents,  though  they  ain't  but  thirty  cents  a  dozen  down 
to  the  store,  I  b'lieve.     I  don't  care  if  they  ain't. 

"  She  took  the  eggs  off  in  a  corner  of  her  cloak.  When 
she  got  to  the  carriage,  you  should  hev  heard  the  laughin'. 
I  put  on  my  shawl  agin',  'n'  I  crep'  round  in  the  shade  till 
I  was  near  enough  to  hear,  V  I  heard  that  woman  goin' 
on  an'  sayin'  jest  what  I'd  be'n  sayin'  to  her,  V  I  had  to 
pinch  myself  to  see  if  'twas  me  talkin'  or  not.  I  was  mad, 
but  somehow  I  couldn't  help  laughin',  too,  to  save  my  life. 

"  I  heard  another  woman's  voice,  'n'  a  man's  voice ;  V 
a  half-grown  boy  was  takin'  the  horses  outer  the  sharves 
an'  rubbin'  'em  down.  I  stayed  till  I  begun  to  shiver  agin'; 
then  I  went  back,  'n'  I  took  more  pain-killer,  but  I  didn't 
hev  a  very  restful  night. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  one  mite  if  my  body  wouldn't  fit 
my  sleeves,  nor  my  sleeves  my  body." 

The  transition  from  her  night  adventures  to  her  present 
dressmaking  was  so  abrupt  that  it  was  confusing. 

Aunt  Lowizy  rose,  and  having  forgotten  the  plate  in  her 
lap,  it  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  floor.  She  stooped  and  picked 
up  the  fragments  mechanically,  gazing  at  mother  mean- 
while. 

"  I  do  declare,  Serissy  !"  she  cried.  "  How  curious  things 
happen  !" 

Miss  Cobb  glanced  sharply  at  the  speaker,  but  she  said 
nothing.  She  had  not  spent  so  much  of  her  life  in  visiting 
without  having  learned  a  good  deal  about  refraining  from 
asking  questions.  She  would  interrogate  an  unsuspicious 
child  if  it  were  away  from  its  guardians,  but  she  was  very 
wise  in  her  refraining  at  other  times. 


MISS    COEE    RELATES  ej 

Mother  gave  her  sister  a  quick  look,  which  Miss  Cobb 
did  not  fail  to  see,  and  Aunt  Lowizy  retreated  into  the 
kitchen. 

••  I  guess  likely,  from  what  you  say,  Rachel,"  said  moth- 
er, with  an  air  of  being  willing  to  tell  everything,  "  that 
that  woman  you  saw  must  be  the  one  that  bought  Lem- 
uel's gray  colt." 

"  I  want  to  know  !"  was  the  response.  "  Now,  ain't  that 
odd  ?  I  heard  over  by  the  Great  Medders  that  she  was  a 
play-actress,  'n'  he  got  a  tremendous  price.  But  he's  one 
that  always  doos  git  good  prices.'' 

"  It's  a  remarkably  good  colt/'  returned  mother,  with 
some  severity,  and  Miss  Cobb  hastened  to  asseverate  she 
knew  it ;  oh  yes,  everybody  from  Great  Medders  clear  down 
the  river  knew  that  gray  Armstrong  colt  was  real  tiptop. 

I  remained  sitting  quietly  in  my  chair  until  it  seemed 
absolutely  beyond  my  power  to  keep  still  longer.  Perhaps 
Miss  Runciman  had  not,  after  all,  forgotten  me  ;  perhaps 
she  would  soon  call ;  perhaps — here  I  rose  abruptly.  I  felt 
mother's  eyes  on  me,  but  I  would  not  appear  to  notice 
them. 

I  caught  up  my  big  straw  hat  from  the  grind-stone  in  the 
shed  where  I  had  last  flung  it.  I  hastened  with  it  in  my 
hand  out  through  the  yard  and  along  the  low  path  that 
wound  towards  the  river.  This  path  was  used  by  many 
people,  for  it  cut  of!  more  than  half  a  mile  if  one  wished 
to  go  from  our  vicinity  to  the  falls.  It  was  along  this  path 
that  Rachel  Cobb  had  come  in  the  morning  with  her  reti- 
cule holding  her  silesia  and  her  "body." 

I  had  not  gone  many  rods  when  something  made  me 
look  back.  There  was  mother  standing  at  the  shed  door. 
I  hesitated,  a  throb  of  rebellion  in  my  heart.  She  was 
looking  at  me,  but  she  made  no  sign  to  recall  me.      So  I 


52 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


hurried  on  ;  but  there  was  still  a  faint  pain  which  I  re- 
sented. I  said  to  myself  that  mother  really  must  have 
strange  notions;  and  she  had  told  me  I  might  go' to  Miss 
Runciman.  Not  that  I  was  going  to  her  now — by  no  means. 
I  only  meant  to  stroll  along  until  I  came  near  Miss  Cobb's 
little  house.  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  go  to 
Miss  Cobb's  house  ;  it  stood  in  the  most  picturesque  spot 
in  the  town.  I  had  often  been  there,  and  sat  and  gazed 
at  the  falls,  and  the  gorge,  and  the  far  background  of 
mountains. 

There  was  Bidwell  Blake  just  jumping  over  the  fence 
into  the  path.  Of  course  he  saw  me  ;  he  always  saw  every- 
thing. He  had  a  pitchfork  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  pail 
swung  on  the  pitchfork. 

"  Hullo  !"  he  cried.     "  Goin'  down  to  see  the  circus  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  The  tall  young  fellow's  face  was  posi- 
tively animated.  I  was  indignant,  to  begin  with,  for  I  knew 
what  he  had  called  a  circus. 

"  Oh,  you'd  better  by  half  go,''  he  returned,  standing 
leisurely  in  front  of  me.  "  Red  'n'  yeller  wagon,  full  of 
plate-glass  winders  ;  elephant  goin'  round  ;  monkey  dancin' 
on  the  grass;  band  playin' ;  flags  a-nutterin'  to  the  breeze; 
all  free  gratis,  for  nothin',  V  nobody  goin'  to  pass  round 
the  hat.  Walk  right  up,  ladies 'n' gentlemen.  Tootle — too 
— tootle — too — turn  !" 

He  put  one  hand  to  his  mouth  as  if  he  were  blowing  a 
trumpet.     His  eyes  laughed  at  me  over  his  brown  fist. 

"  You  ought  to  get  a  place  as  clown  somewhere,  Bidwell," 
I  said,  with  emphasis. 

"  Oh,  I've  got  a  place  now,"  he  answered ;  "  clown  for 
Worthing,  the  Great  Medders,  'n'  the  falls.  Seen  the  circus 
wagon,  Billy  ?     I  ain't  jokinV 

"  Where  is  it  ?" 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  53 

I  suppose  there  was  something  unusual  in  my  face,  for 
Bidwell  suddenly  gave  me  a  keen,  searching  look,  which  I 
pretended  not  to  see.  He  wheeled  about  and  pointed  clown 
the  valley. 

"There,  the  other  side  of  the  birches.  You  can  see 
smoke  comin'  out  of  that  funnel." 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked.  I  put  the  question  as  if  I  didn't 
much  care  whether  he  answered  me  or  not. 

"  It's  folks  that  don't  know  whether  they  tread  on  ye 
or  not,'*  with  a  quick  ferocity  in  his  tone  —  "folks  that 
look  at  ye  's  if  you  was  dirt,  'n'  they  was  goin'  to  rub 
their  shoes  in  ye  if  they  was  a  mind  to.  There  he  is 
now !" 

The  figure  of  a  young  man  emerged  from  among  the 
birches  where  the  carriage  stood.  This  figure  lounged 
forward  into  the  full  sunlight.  It  was  not  very  near,  but 
my  eyes  were  strong,  and  I  saw  that  this  stranger  wore  a 
short  coat  of  gray,  that  his  gray  trousers  ended  at  the 
knees,  and  were  met  by  rough  stockings.  He  had  on  no 
hat ;  his  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets.  He  appeared 
to  be  whistling,  for  the  higher  strains  reached  us. 

"  Who  is  he  ?"  I  asked,  repeating  my  question  with  a 
change  of  pronoun. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  There's  a  curious  gang  down  there. 
That  feller  was  over  to  our  house  this  mornin'.  He  said 
he  wanted  to  buy  some  chickens ;  'n'  he  wanted  a  little  pig 
to  roast  whole.  Father  was  goin'  to  sell  him  something,  but 
I  come  along  jest  then,  'n'  when  I  seen  the  cut  of  that 
feller's  jib  I  jest  said  up  loud  that  we  hadn't  got  nothin'  to 
sell,  not  a  darn  thing." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  looked  me  over  's  if  I  was  pu'sley,  and  he 
drawled,  '  Nothin'  but  cheek,  eh  F     Then  he  whirled  round 


54 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


'n1  walked  away,  he  V  his  brindle  dorg  behind  him.  I 
wanted  to  fire  a  stone  at  the  dorg,  but  I  didn't." 

I  was  always  quite  frank  with  Bid  Blake,  and  I  was 'frank 
now,  for  I  immediately  informed  him  that  he  seemed  to 
have  acted  like  a  fool.  He  swung  his  hayfork  from  his 
shoulder  and  leaned  on  it. 

"  Think  so  ?  Wall,  I  differ  ;  that's  all.  Do  you  think  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  feller  from  a  red  'n'  yaller  wagon,  with  short 
britches  on  his  legs,  come  V  look  me  over  ?  No,  I  ain't. 
How's  your  mar  to-day,  Billy  ?" 

Bidwell  made  this  inquiry  with  a  rapid  change  to  good- 
humor.  I  replied  that  mother  was  quite  well.  All  the 
time  I  was  looking  at  the  figure  further  down  the  river,  and 
this  figure  appeared  entirely  absorbed  in  contemplating  the 
falls.  But  I  was  not  really  thinking  intently  of  the  strange 
young  man.     I  was  really  wondering  where  Miss  Runciman 


was. 

"  T' 


I'm  awful  sorry  you've  had  'advantages,'  Billy,"  ex- 
claimed my  companion. 

"  Why  ?"     I  spoke  vaguely. 

"'Cause  a  girl  like  you  's  good  enough  'thout  'em.  'N' 
then, '  advantages  '  make  ye  kind  of — wall,  kind  of  far  away, 
somehow." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !     They  don't  either." 

"  Yes,  they  do,  too.     I  wish — " 

I  hardly  heard  him.  Another  person,  a  woman,  had 
appeared  from  the  direction  of  the  wagon,  and  she  was 
advancing  towards  the  young  man,  who  had  not  noticed 
her. 

"Oh  !"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  I  wonder  if  that  is  she  ?" 

Bidwell  flung  himself  around.  "What  she  you  talkin' 
'bout?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Oh,  no;  it  isn't,"  I  said,  not  paying  any  heed  to  him; 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  55 

"  it  isn't  her  carriage ;  she  isn't  tall  enough,  and  she  isn't 
old  enough.     It's — it's  somebody  else." 

A  keen  apprehension  came  to  me.  What  if  Miss  Runci- 
man  had  had  another  whim  in  regard  to  some  one  else,  and 
taken  that  some  one  else,  and.  forgotten  me  ?  A  black 
certainty  that  she  had  done  so  seized  me. 

'•What's  the  matter?"  asked  Bidwell,  apprehensively. 

"Nothing.     I'm  going  home." 

I  turned  and  began  to  retrace  my  steps  hurriedly.  The 
young  man  kept  beside  me  until  I  was  nearly  frantic  in  my 
longing  to  be  left  by  myself.     I  paused. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  on  !"  I  said,  impatiently.  After  all,  I 
had  no  chance  of  going  with  Miss  Runciman.  It  was  ter- 
rible. I  was  shut  in  the  dark,  away  from  full  and  glowing 
life.  Not  until  this  moment  did  I  know  how  eager  I  had 
been.     Why,  I  could  not  bear  it. 

"  Won't  you  go  ?"  I  repeated,  sharply. 

"Yes,  if  you  say  so.  But  what  in  the  world  has  hap- 
pened ?" — solicitously.     "  Do  lem  me  help  you,  Billy  !" 

"  I  do  say  so  !" 

I  couldn't  even  try  to  answer  his  other  words. 

Bidwell  looked  at  me  an  instant;  then  he  turned  and 
hurried  away  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come. 
When  he  had  left  me  I  stopped  walking.  I  stood  still  un- 
til Bidwell  had  gone  so  far  that  there  was  no  likelihood  of 
his  returning.     And  even  then  I  hesitated. 

At  last,  however,  feeling  tolerably  certain  that  no  one 
down  there  by  the  falls  would  see  me,  I  slowly  retraced  my 
steps,  watching  those  two  who  stood  there  gazing  up  the 
gorge.  Yes,  that  was  a  young  girl.  Miss  Runciman  had 
changed  her  mind.  I  must  give  up  all  hope  of  going  with 
her.  My  spirits  sank  and  sank.  Not  being  one  who  easily 
sheds  tears,  I  did  not  shed  them  now.     But  I  had  a  very 


56  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

romantic,  and,  I  thought,  terrible  conviction  that  my  heart 
was  weeping.  I  had  read  of  heroines  whose  hearts  wept 
while  they  themselves  wore  what  was  technically  termed 
"gay  masks." 

I  was  certainly  very  unhappy.  And  I  must  really  think 
of  some  way  of  earning  money.  Of  course  father  could  sup- 
port me,  but  even  a  girl  has  now  and  then  a  wish  for  an  in- 
dependent individual  existence. 

I  had  chosen  to  sit  down  under  a  small,  thick,  growing 
pine.  It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  I  should  be  observed.  I 
leaned  my  elbow  on  my  knee  and  my  chin  in  my  hand  and 
gazed  downward.  Ah  !  some  one  else  came  from  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  carriage  now.  Yes,  that  was  Miss  Runci- 
man  herself.  She  came  slowly  up  to  the  group  •  they 
seemed  to  talk ;  the  elder  lady  gestured  in  that  large,  free 
way  of  hers.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  about  her;  she 
walked  up  and  down  the  river-bank  with  her  hands  behind 
her.  I  heard  the  high  notes  of  something  she  was  singing. 
With  her  face  in  my  direction,  she  suddenly  paused.  She 
turned  and  appeared  to  speak  to  the  young  man  who  joined 
her  and  gave  her  something  from  his  pocket.  The  next 
moment  I  was  aware  that  an  opera-glass  was  levelled  at  me. 
My  cheeks  began  to  burn.  Miss  Runciman  lowered  the  glass, 
spoke  again  to  the  young  man,  who  now  left  her,  was  lost  a 
moment  to  my  sight,  then  appeared  on  the  nearer  side  of  the 
thicket  of  birches.  He  was  rapidly  and  unmistakably  com- 
ing towards  me.  I  rose  in  confusion.  I  wavered  between  a 
desire  to  run  away  and  a  wish  to  remain.  Of  course  I  re- 
mained. 

I  watched  the  stranger's  approach.  He  was  bareheaded, 
and  I  saw  how  white  his  forehead  was,  then  how  noticeably 
luxuriant  his  hair  was;  his  beardless  face,  square  jaw,  with 
a  decided  cleft  down  the  middle  of  the  chin  ;  and  yet,  in 


MISS    COBB    RELATES  57 

spite  of  that  chin,  his  long,  dark  eyes  gave  a  sort  of  dreamy, 
foreign  look  to  his  face.  There  was  no  dreamy  look  in  it 
now,  however,  as  he  came  up  the  slope  towards  me  ;  and 
my  after-fancies  concerning  his  countenance  are  here  pre- 
maturely put  down.  This  was  the  man  to  whom  Bid  well 
Blake  wouldn't  sell  chickens  because  he,  Bidwell,  was  made 
to  feel  like  dirt ! 

I  sat  perfectly  still  and  grew  more  and  more  excited.  It 
does  not  require  much  to  excite  a  girl  who  lives  in  a  place 
like  Worthing.  There  was  the  brindle  dog,  nosing  leisurely 
along  at  some  distance  behind  his  master. 

This  young  man  came  up  to  within  a  few  yards  of  me, 
paused,  and  bowed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  are  you  Billy  ?" 

"  Yes/V" 

"  Then  I  am  to  ask  you  to  go  down  there,"  waving  his 
hand  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come.  "  Miss  Run- 
ciman  sent  me  for  you.  Miss  Runciman  is  my  aunt.  If 
she  wants  a  thing,  she  has  to  have  it.     She  wants  you." 

I  rose,  but  I  didn't  feel  quite  like  going  with  him,  now 
that  I  had  lost  my  chance.  That  is  the  way  I  looked  at  it. 
Miss  Runciman  had  some  one  else,  and  I  had  lost  my 
chance.     I  stood  in  evident  indecision. 

"  Come,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  But  I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  go,"  I  responded. 
My  glance  slid  away  from  his  somewhat  mocking  eyes.  In 
point  of  fact,  I  was  afraid  that  if  I  met  Miss  Runciman  she 
would  discover  how  disappointed  I  was.  And  I  was  angry 
with  her  for  playing  with  me. 

The  brindle  clog  came  up  to  me  now  and  sniffed  at  my 
skirts,  then  licked  my  hand. 

"  No,"  I  said,  suddenly,  "  I  think  you  may  ask  Miss  Run- 
ciman to  excuse  me." 


c8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

And  as  I  spoke  I  was  afraid  I  should  choke  in  the  in- 
tensity of  my  anger  and  disappointment.  It  was  mean  of 
her — yes,  mean  of  her. 

The  young  man  did  not  look  at  me  now.  He  stood 
glancing  down  the  valley,  with  his  hand  on  the  top  of  his 
doo-'s  head.  But  I  had  a  conviction  that  there  was  a  hint 
of  amusement  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  As  this  con- 
viction came  to  me  I  was  glad  that  the  Blakes  hadn't  sold 
him  a  little  pig  or  any  chickens.     I  stood  up  quite  stiffly. 

"  Please  ask  Miss  Runciman  to  excuse  me,"  I  repeated, 
in  a  tone  to  match  my  attitude. 

He  turned  away  without  speaking,  and  began  to  run 
down  the  path.  Was  he  laughing?  I  was  almost  certain 
he  was  laughing.  Now,  in  the  light  of  a  great  deal  of  wis- 
dom acquired  since  that  day,  I  know  that  I  ought  at  this 
stage  to  have  made  a  dignified  retreat.  But  I  did  not.  I 
sat  down  again  under  the  pine-tree,  and  I  watched  Miss 
Runciman's  messenger  until  he  joined  her  and  related  his 
adventures.  I  saw  them  all  turn  and  look  up  to  where  I 
was  sitting.     I  suppose  they  were  all  laughing. 

In  a  moment  Miss  Runciman  left  her  companions  and 
began  walking  up  towards  me.  Then  I  began  to  be  ashamed 
of  my  childishness.  How  could  they  know  that  it  was  be- 
cause of  my  disappointment  that  I  was  behaving  in  this 
fashion  ?  Miss  Runciman  came  on  easily  and  lightly.  She 
wore  a  loose  blouse  waist,  abbreviated  skirt,  and  heavy 
shoes.  She  walked  directly  to  me,  where  I  waited  in  a  fool- 
ish agony.     She  came  and  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  authoritatively. 


IV 
NEWSPAPER  PARAGRAPHS 

"  Nothing,"  I  answered. 

Into  what  an  idiotic  position  I  had  put  myself!  Miss 
Runciman's  eyes  dwelt  upon  me  as  she  stood  there  silently. 
Then  she  asked  : 

"Are  you  sulking?"     I  tried  to  put  on  an  air  of  dignity. 

"  Sulking  ?"  I  repeated,  not  too  politely.  "  Why  should  I 
do  that?" 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know ;  but  you  seem  amazingly  like  a 
sulking  child  who  ought  to  be  whipped." 

Having  made  this  very  humiliating  remark,  the  lady  sat 
down  not  far  from  me  and  occupied  herself  with  gazing  at 
the  scenery.  If  I  had  done  just  what  I  longed  to  do  at 
that  moment  I  should  have  screamed  savagely.  My  pres- 
ent attitude  was  all  my  own  fault,  and  for  that  reason  I  was 
furiously  indignant  with  what  I  called  fate.  It's  such  a  fine 
thing  to  be  indignant  with  fate. 

The  moments  went  by,  and  still  my  companion  contem- 
plated the  prospect.  My  furtive  glance  at  her  showed  me 
a  serene  face  turned  towards  the  mountain.  I  looked  down 
the  river-bank  ;  the  two  figures  were  gone. 

Now,  when  I  had  thought  I  had  successfully  overcome 
all  symptoms  of  "  going  to  pieces,"  I  suddenly  began  to 
cry.  I  was  bitterly  ashamed  of  myself,  but  I  couldn't  stop, 
try  as  I  would.     I  know  that  Miss  Runciman   turned   and 


60  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

looked  at  me  in  a  puzzled  way,  in  which  there  was  some 
impatience.     I  heard  her  exclaim  : 

"  What  queer  things  women  are  !"  and  then,  in  a  voice 
below  her  breath,  "  I  didn't  think  this  one  was  of  the  cry- 
ing kind." 

I  was  stung.     I  flung  up  my  head. 

"  No  more  I  ain't !"  I  cried  out  fiercely,  my  tears  burning 
on  my  cheeks. 

"Oh!" 

"  I'm  not,"  I  repeated  ;  "  I  don't  cry  once  in  a  hundred 
years — mother  "11  tell  you  that.  But  I've  been  suffering. 
Yes,  and  you  made  me,  and  I've  hoped,  and  hoped ;  and 
then  you  didn't  come — nor  send — and  I  tried  to  give  it  all 
up,  and  the  more  I  tried  the  more  it  hurt.  And  it's  too 
bad,  too  awfully  bad,  of  you  to  be  a  woman  of  whims  ! 
There,  nowr,  I've  said  it!" 

My  tears  were  effectually  dried  now,  you  may  be  sure.  I 
didn't  care  what  I  said.  The  accumulated  hope  and  uncer- 
tainty of  the  past  fortnight  were  pushing  the  words  out  of 
my  lips.  I  sprang  to  my  feet.  I  blush  now  as  I  remember 
my  impertinence.  I  was  rushing  away  when  I  heard  the 
words  : 

"  My  dear  child !"  The  tone  of  them  was  like  a  hand  laid 
on  my  arm,  and  I  stood  still.  What  storms  youth  does  in- 
voke ! 

"  Sit  down  here  by  me,"  were  the  next  words.  I  hesi- 
tated, but  I  obeyed  the  next  moment. 

After  a  silence  Miss  Runciman  asked  : 

"  Have  you  had  a  quarrel  with  your  lover  ?" 

This  question  seemed  contemptible  to  me.  That  she  had 
asked  it  injured  my  ideal  of  her. 

"  I  told  you  I  had  no  lover,"  I  replied. 

'"  So  you  did  ;   I  remember.     But  you  know  it  is  a  tradition 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  6 I 

of  the  world  to  ascribe  any  real  suffering  of  the  grown  femi- 
nine to  some  masculine." 

I  made  no  answer.  I  was  still  quivering  with  my  recent 
emotion.  And  now  she  was  disappointing  me  by  talking 
thus  !  Had  I  not  just  told  her?  Was  she  stupid,  after  all, 
this  great  prima  donna  ? 

"  Is  it  the  simple  truth  you've  been  telling  me  ?"  she  in- 
quired after  a  time. 

"Yes." 

She  turned  towards  me  smiling. 

"Though  I've  been  a  young  girl  myself,"  she  said,  "  I  still 
think  a  young  girl  is  the  most  mysterious  thing  God  has 
ever  created." 

Of  course  I  had  no  reply  to  make  to  this.  And  I  didn't 
know  what  she  meant,  either.  That  was  a  very  foolish  way 
people  had  of  talking  about  girls. 

"  You  didn't  seem  very  eager  to  come  with  me  when  I  saw 
you  in  Chilton,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  was  eager,"  I  answered,  in  a  low  voice.  Then  I 
hurriedly  continued  :  "  Mother  didn't  want  me  to  go — mother 
thought  that — that  it  was  something  glittering  but  not  good, 
that— that —  But,  oh,  •  dear  !  I  didn't  mean  to  tell— I — 
What  must  you  think  of  me  ?" 

I  looked  at  the  face  near  me.  It  was  smiling,  but  there 
was  a  bright  gleam  in  the  eyes  that  I  could  not  understand. 
She  did  not  speak,  and  I  went  on  : 

"But,  now  you've  got  some  one  else,  it's  all  over.  And 
mother  will  be  glad — yes,  mother  will  be  very  glad."  I 
tried  hard  to  get  comfort  from  this  fact. 

"I  haven't  got  any  one  else,"  said  Miss  Runciman. 

I  turned  towards  her,  but  I  did  not  speak.  She  gazed  at 
me  for  an  instant,  then  she  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  youth  :  youth  !" 


62  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

What  did  she  mean  by  that  ?     She  laughed  gently. 

"I  certainly  was  not  mistaken.  You  have  the  violin 
face.  But  when  am  I  mistaken  in  such  matters?  Oh,  I 
know  some  things  about  the  divine,  human  countenance !" 

Here  she  fell  silent  again,  gazing  at  me.  As  for  me,  I 
didn't  think  much  of  what  she  had  just  said.  Perhaps  that 
was  the  way  great  opera  singers  liked  to  talk.  I  was  fast 
growing  happy.  I  had  been  mistaken.  She  had  no  one 
else.  I  had  rashly  jumped  to  a  conclusion,  and  she  had  not 
let  us  hear  from  her  for  so  long.  But  nothing  mattered 
now.  I  had  not  lost  my  chance.  My  soul  was  growing 
radiant  again.  She  still  watched  me.  At  last  she  said  that 
she  didn't  know  why  I  should  think  she  had  some  one  else. 

"Because — because  there's  that  girl  down  there.  Of 
course  I  thought  you  were  going  to  make  her  into  an  un- 
derstudy.    And  you  said  you  were  a  woman  of  whims." 

I  was  surprised  at  my  boldness.  Miss  RuncimarTs 
laugh  rang  clearly.  She  seemed  much  amused.  She 
suddenly  bade  me  walk  about  a  little  on  the  level  ground 
in  front.  I  rose  and  walked  about,  forgetting  in  my  newly 
come  good  spirits  to  be  self-conscious. 

"  Now  stand  where  you  are  and  sing  me  a  bit  of  some- 
thing," she  commanded. 

It  was  a  curious  thing  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  this 
time  also  but  "  Come,  ye  disconsolate,"  and  I  was  ashamed 
to  try  that  again. 

"  Come  !"   imperatively. 

My  mind  was  one  sheet  of  white  paper  with  "Come,  ye 
disconsolate  "  written  on  it.  The  blood  rose  to  my  face 
and  threatened  to  burst  from  it. 

"  I  can't,"  I  said,  feebly. 

"Good  heavens!  You  re  not  a  stick,  are  you?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  63 

Then  I  clashed  wildly  into — 

"  I'll  chase  the  antelope  over  the  plain, 
The  tiger's  cub  I'll  bind  with  a  chain  ; 
The  wild  gazelle  with  its  silvery  feet 
I'll  give  thee  for  a  playmate  sweet." 

That  was  what  Aunt  Lowizy  sang  sometimes  from  morn- 
ins:  till  nis;ht  as  she  worked  about  the  house.  On  such 
clays  father  used  to  say,  "Lowizy's  got  onto  her  wild  ga- 
zelle."    Miss  Runciman  rose  as  I  finished. 

"You've  been  crying,  and  your  voice  shows  it,"  she 
remarked.  "  Now,  let's  go  clown  to  the  carriage,  and 
then  you  can  go  home  and  tell  your  mother  you've  seen 
me." 

I  followed  her  as  she  walked  on  along  the  path.  Often 
she  stopped  to  look  about  her,  but  presently  we  were  at  the 
river's  edge,  and  then  I  saw  two  figures  sitting  on  a  black 
bearskin  which  was  spread  beneath  a  hackmatack  by  the 
bank.  These  two  rose  and  came  forward.  One  of  them 
was  the  young  man  whom  Miss  Runciman  had  sent  for  me. 
The  other  was  a  girl  about  my  own  age,  I  judged.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  short  flannel  suit,  and  altogether  had  apparently 
as  much  freedom  of  movement  as  the  young  man.  This 
freedom,  though  it  seemed  desirable  to  me,  yet  also  had  a 
quite  indescribable  flavor  of  something  not  respectable.  I 
wished  to  gaze  unrestrainedly  at  her,  but  I  had  no  oppor- 
tunity, particularly  as  she  was  staring  at  me  with  undisguised 
persistence.  She  stood  leaning  on  a  rough  stick  she  had 
evidently  just  cut  from  a  clump  of  chestnuts  near  her  ;  and 
she  had  an  open  pocket-knife  in  her  hand.  The  young  man, 
who  had  called  himself  Miss  Runciman's  nephew,  was  be- 
hind her,  looking  over  her  head.  I  could  not  but  have  a 
feeling  that   they  considered  me   a   country  creature   who 


6/j.  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

could  be  examined  quite  at  their  leisure.  I  stood  straight, 
and  shut  my  mouth  to  keep  it  from  quivering. 

"  You've  heard  me  speak  of  Miss  Armstrong,  children  ?" 
said  the  elder  lady. 

The  girl  nodded  and  resumed  the  trimming  of  her  walk- 
ing-stick.    She  glanced  up  to  say:  "  You  called  her  Billy." 

"  So  I  did.  I  hope  she  forgives  me.  Vane,  come  out 
here — don't  hide  behind  your  sister." 

The  young  man  stepped  forth. 

"Miss  Armstrong,  let  me  present  my  nephew,  Vane 
Hildreth.  He  has  a  pretty  tenor  voice.  He  can  already 
do  a  lover  on  the  stage  very  well." 

"  Not  so  well  as  I  can,  Miss  Armstrong,1'  said  the  girl, 
quickly.  "Young  men  don't  know  how  to  make  love  until 
we've  taught  them.  I  did  Romeo  once  ;  you  ought  to  have 
heard  and  seen  me.  Romeo  had  a  contralto  voice;  he 
couldn't  have  sung  a  tenor  note  to  save  his  life.  And  a 
girl  fell  in  love  with  me  and  sent  me  a  bouquet  with  a 
three-cornered  note  in  it.  Oh,  Jupiter !  I  wish  girls  were 
not  always  fools." 

"So   do   I,"    I    responded,   fervently,  whereat   we   both 

laughed. 

"  So  don't  I,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hildreth,  "  for  if  girls  were 
not  sometimes  fools,  who  would  smile  upon  us  ?" 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  this  remark.  The  girl  now 
said  that  she  had  not  been  introduced,  and  she  thought  that 
she  was  worth  knowing. 

"  So  you  are,  Bathsheba,"  responded  Miss  Runciman, 
"and  you  never  will  fail  because  you  hang  in  the  back- 
ground. She's  my  niece,  Miss  Hildreth,"  continued  the 
speaker,  glancing  at  me. 

"  Commonly  known  as  Bashy,"  amended  the  girl.  "  We'll 
make  a  fine  team,  Bashy  and  Billy." 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  65 

Here  she  laughed  shrilly  and  showed  a  great  many  very 
white,  sharp-looking  teeth.  She  had  a  look  as  if  she  might, 
if  she  were  angry,  defend  herself  by  biting,  I  did  not  know 
why  I  should  begin  to  feel  homesick.  I  tried  to  think  of 
something  to  say  that  should  be  an  opening  for  me  to  go 
away,  but  I  could  think  of  nothing.  I  stood  silent  and  awk- 
ward. Finally  I  summoned  courage  to  announce  that  I 
must  go  home. 

"  Let  us  sing  something  first,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  I  can't !" 

I  shrank.  Somehow  my  independent  spirit  deserted  me 
before  Bathsheba  Hildreth: 

"  But  everything  here  hangs  upon  whether  one  can  sing," 
responded  Bashy.  "  We  don't  ask  if  you're  good,  or  beau- 
tiful, or  anything,  but  can  you  sing  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Runciman,  impatiently. 

"But  isn't  it  true,  what  I  say,  Aunt  Nora?"  lifting  un- 
blenching  eyes  to  the  elder  woman. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,  anyway,"  was  the  response. 

"Miss  Armstrong,"  said  the  girl,  "don't  you  believe  her. 
It's  just  like  this  :  If  you  were  suspected  of  murder,  and 
forgery,  and  a  few  other  trifles,  and  you  came  to  my  aunt, 
she  wouldn't  ask  if  you  were  guilty ;  she  would  want  to 
know  if  you  had  a  natural  voice,  and  how  many  octaves. 
Oh,  we  are  an  awful  lot!  We  don't  care  much  about 
the  Ten  Commandments.  Thou  shalt  not  sharp  —  above 
all  things,  thou  shalt  not  flat  \  and  thou  shalt  learn  the 
Rubini  method.  Aunt  Nora,  you  know  I'm  telling  the 
truth." 

"  I  think  it's  time  for  me  to  go  home,"  I  said  again  to 
my  hostess. 

"You  see  you  have  frightened  the  child,  Bashy,"  said 
Miss  Runciman,  with  some  severity. 


66  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  No ;  I'm  not  frightened,  and  I'm  not  a  child,"  I  re- 
sponded, with  dignity. 

The  girl  laughed  as  she  whittled  at  her  stick.  The  young 
man,  her  brother,  as  I  understood,  had  walked  away.  I 
saw  him  lying  on  the  bearskin,  reading. 

"  Good-bye  !" 

I  looked  at  Miss  Runciman  as  I  spoke. 

"  You  won't  mind  Bashy  after  a  little,"  she  remarked. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  answered;  "  I  sha'n't  mind  her." 

I  looked  over  at  the  girl  as  I  spoke.  My  fingers  were 
tingling  with  anger.  I  could  hardly  tell  why  I  was  so 
angry.  And  a  wild,  silly  hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  sing 
better  than  she  came  to  me.  I  knew  it  was  wild  and  silly, 
but  I  could  not  put  it  from  me.  I  wanted  to  sing  better, 
far  better,  than  that  girl  who  was  laughing  and  whittling, 
and  who  was  despising  me.  Wasn't  she  despising  me  ? 
Our  eyes  met  for  an  instant.  She  had  small  eyes,  but 
they  were  well  set,  sparkling,  and  expressive. 

"  Good-bye,"  I  said  once  more  to  Miss  Runciman. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  must  go,"  more  indifferently  than  I 
had  expected  her  to  speak.  "  I  think  we  shall  remain  here 
for  a  few  days.  It's  really  delightful,  and  then  we  are  near 
Miss  Rachel  Cobb,"  with  a  laugh.  "  Do  you  know  Miss 
Rachel  Cobb  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  is  at  our  house  this  moment,"  I  answered. 

Then  I  nodded  at  Bathsheba  Hildreth  and  walked  away. 
I  was  choking.  Everything  was  ruined  by  that  horrid  girl. 
I  doubled  my  hands  into  fists  as  I  hurried  up  the  path. 
But  I  wanted  to  hear  her  sing.  I  must  really  hear  her. 
I  had  as  little  technical  knowledge  as  one  may  have,  but 
I  could  trust  to  my  natural  taste  to  tell  me  something  of 
her  powers.  Oh,  yes,  I  would  hear  that  girl  sing  before 
another  twenty-four  hours  had  passed.     I  went  faster  and 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  6j 

faster ;  the  pace  I  was  going  was   the  only  expression  I 
could  give  to  my  excitement. 

In  the  kitchen  of  my  home  I  found  Aunt  Lowizy  and 
Miss  Cobb.  The  latter  informed  me  directly  that  her  body 
wouldn't  fit  nothin',  and  there  wouldn't  nothin'  fit  her  body; 
so  she'd  given  up  tryin',  after  having  spoiled  two  yards  of 
flannelette  and  a  yard  and  a  half  of  silesia.  She  was  sit- 
ting with  her  hands  resting  on  her  lap.  She  looked  at  me 
with  exceeding  sharpness.  She  asked  me  if  I  felt  as  well 
as  usual,  and  had  I  seen  Bid  Blake  ? 

To  both  of  these  questions  I  answered  yes.  She  then 
remarked  that  Bid  had  jest  been  there,  and  that  she  for 
one  thought  there  was  something  heavy  on  his  mind.  She 
had  made  inquiries  and  he  had  told  her  that  he  had  never 
felt  quite  so  well  in  his  life  ;  but  she  knew  better.  There 
was  something  on  Bid's  mind,  or  else  set  her  down  for  a 
hen  with  her  head  cut  off.  Having  said  so  much,  she  sud- 
denly asked : 

"You  seen  urn,  I'll  bet?" 

I  looked  at  her  in  momentary  indecision.  Then  I  an- 
swered that  I  had. 

"  Did  they  want  to  buy  something  ?" 

"No." 

"Wall,  they  will.  'N'  you'll  feel  's  if— oh,  land,  p'raps 
you  won't,  either !  Mebby  you're  one  of  them  kind  your- 
self.    Jew  see  um  all  ?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"  How  many  was  they  ?" 

I  told  her. 

"That  ain't  all.  There's  a  boy  that  tends  to  the  hosses. 
I'm  bound  to  see  every  one  of  um.  They  can't  put  me 
down — no,  sir,  they  can't  do  it." 

Mother  came  into  the  room  at  this  moment.     Yielding 


68  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

to  a  strong  impulse,  I  went  to  her  quickly.  I  was  about  to 
throw  my  arms  about  her  when  I  caught  Miss  Cobb's  eyes 
on  me. 

"You  look  kinder  hystrikcy,"  she  remarked. 

"  I  am,"  I  responded ;  "and  if  I  am,  I  have  a  right  to  be." 

Then  I  flung  out  of  the  room  and  ran  to  the  barn.  I 
climbed  into  the  hay  mow  and  sat  down  on  the  hay.  I 
hoped  mother  would  come  here  to  find  me.  But  the  mo- 
ments passed  and  no  one  came.  I  had  plenty  of  time  to 
decide  that  I  had  no  reason  to  expect  mother.  I  leaned 
back  on  the  hay.  The  new  crop  was  still  to  be  put  in,  the 
most  of  it ;  but  I  was  lying  upon  a  pile  of  fresh-cured 
grass  that  had  been  tossed  up  into  the  mow  but  the  day 
before.  Its  fragrance  filled  the  place.  I  looked  up  into 
the  roof.  From  rafter  to  rafter  were  the  same  dusty,  volu- 
minous cobwebs  that  had  been  there  ever  since  I  could 
remember.  They  were  swaying  now  in  the  warm  wind  that 
swept  through  the  open  windows,  and  in  at  these  windows 
the  barn  swallows  were  flying  and  sweeping  about  in  the 
peak  of  the  roof.  I  looked  at  them  until  their  movements 
grew  dimly  rhythmic,  then  more  vague.  I  was  asleep  in 
that  blessed  way  that  allows  you  to  know  you  are  asleep. 

Very  soon,  or  I  thought  it  was  very  soon,  I  heard  steps 
on  the  floor  below,  then  on  the  stairs.  Mother  was  coming 
at  last.  I  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  open  my  eyes.  I  lay 
there  half-awake  in  that  delicious  state  which  sometimes 
comes  between  sleeping  and  walking,  thinking  absolutely 
nothing,  conscious  of  life  as  a  happy  baby  ought  to  be  con- 
scious of  it. 

Yes,  the  steps  had  ascended  the  stairs.  I  lazily  opened 
my  eyes  and  saw  a  man  standing  hat  in  hand  not  far  from 
me,  gazing  at  me.  1  sal  up  qui<  kly,  feeling  the  blood  surge 
up  into  my  face. 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  69 

"  Mr.  Ronald  Maverick  !"  I  exclaimed. 

The  man  bowed.  "  I  suppose  you're  Mr.  Armstrong's 
daughter  ?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

I  had  a  confused  wonder  as  to  whether  he  knew  how 
fine  he  looked.  He  was  dressed  in  white  duck,  even  to 
his  shoes,  and  the  hat  in  his  hand  was  white  also.  To  my 
surprise  I  noticed  now  that  he  was  somewhat  bald.  My 
eye  unconsciously  sought  the  diamond  on  his  finger ;  yes, 
there  it  was,  sparkling  in  the  gloom  of  the  hay  mow. 

"  If  I  only  knew  you  a  little  more,  I'd  ask  you  to  let  me 
sit  down  on  this  hay,"  he  now  said. 

I  made  no  reply  to  this  remark.  I  didn't  wish  to  have 
him  sit  here.     I  rose. 

"  Father  expected  you  more  than  a  week  ago,"  I  informed 
him. 

"  Yes;  I  meant  to  come  then,  but  I  was  detained,  and 
as  it  was  so  uncertain  when  I  could  come,  I  didn't  write. 
I  hope  he  can  get  me  a  horse?"  questioningly. 

"  Oh,  father  can  always  get  a  horse  if  anybody  wants 
one,"  I  answered.  Then  Mr.  Maverick  said,  "So  glad, 
I'm  sure,"  and  laughed  a  little,  showing  beneath  his  carefully 
trained  mustache  a  great  deal  of  gold  in  his  teeth. 

I  wanted  to  ask  after  Cornelia,  but  I  knew  I  mustn't  do 
that,  so  I  stood  silent  until  I  could  think  what  to  say. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  the  house  and  wait  for  father  ? 
He's  only  gone  to  the  village  to  get  his  mowing-machine 
mended." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I'll  stay  out-of-doors.  I  don't  want  to  be 
in  a  house  if  I  can  help  it." 

He  stood  aside  deferentially  for  me  to  move  towards  the 
stairs.  Then  he  followed.  When  we  were  in  the  barn- 
yard he  asked  if  I  would  tell  him  which  way  was  the  pleas- 


70  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

antest  for  a  stroll.  I  hesitated.  Then  I  answered  that  I 
liked  all  the  ways,  but  strangers  usually  went  down  the  path 
to  the  falls.  He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  were  going  to  ask 
me  to  accompany  him  ;  but  he  said  nothing.  He  only  made 
one  of  his  impressive  bows  that  somehow  gave  me  the  feel- 
ing that  I  was  a  very  attractive  sort  of  a  person.  Then  he 
started  on  down  the  river-path  and  I  went  into  the  house, 
giving  the  information  that  a  "  man  wanted  father."  This 
I  felt  to  be  extremely  meagre  and  insufficient  in  regard  to  a 
being  like  Mr.  Ronald  Maverick. 

Rachel  Cobb  was  just  putting  her  scissors  and  thimble 
and  "  body "  and  silesia  into  a  much  rubbed  leather  bag 
which  had  always  accompanied  her  in  her  years  of  visiting. 
She  was  telling  mother  that  "  she  thought  she'd  better  go 
home  early,  for  somehow  she  kinder  felt  's  if  she  ought  to 
be  round  's  long  's  that  set  of  folks  in  the  long  wagon  was 
down  by  the  falls." 

As  she  tied  the  strings  of  her  sunbonnet  she  looked  at  me 
and  informed  me  that  she  was  hopin'  I'd  come,  for  she 
wanted  me  to  go  back  with  her,  'n'  she'd  send  some  of  the 
seedlin'  strawberries  by  me  in  time  for  our  supper.  The 
seedlin's  was  jest  in  their  prime  now.  I  did  not  manifest 
any  eagerness  to  accept  this  invitation.  I  was  not  particu- 
larly happy  in  Miss  Cobb's  society,  but  Aunt  Lowizy  now 
said  she  did  hope  I'd  go.  So  I  found  my  hat  and  walked 
out  with  Miss  Cobb. 

There  was  a  bicycle  leaning  against  a  fence.  I  had  not 
seen  this  before.  My  companion  called  it  "one  of  them 
critters,"  and  guessed  that  the  feller  in  white  down  there 
ahead  of  us  must  have  come  on  it.  So  I  guessed,  though 
he  was  not  in  cycling  suit.  We  had  not  gone  far  along  the 
path  before  Rachel  turned  her  sunbonnet  towards  me  and 
from  its  depths  said,  in  a  mysterious  voice  : 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  7  I 

"I've  jest  found  out  her  name.  It's  Runciman.  That's 
why  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me.  That's  why  I  thought 
of  the  seedlin's  ;  though  I  guess  there  is  some  left  that  you 
can  take  with  ye." 

I  immediately  felt  the  sting  of  a  vital  interest.  But  what 
did  she  mean  ?  I  asked  her.  Her  jaws  snapped  and 
clacked  with  great  vivacity  as  she  answered  : 

"  Why,  I  mean  that  woman  that  b'longs  in  the  wagon. 
I  didn't  know  her  name.  Your  mother  says  it's  Runciman. 
Now  I  jest  want  you  to  see  something  'bout  her.  I  knew  I 
reck'lected  the  minute  your  mother  spoke  the  word.  'Tain't 
a  common  name,  somehow.  I'll  show  ye.  I  saved  the 
paper ;  but  I  always  save  papers,  for  kindlin',  you  know. 
This  is  a  Philadelphy  paper  ;  come  'round  some  cotton  flan- 
nel that  Miss  Rill  sent  me  ;  Miss  Rill's  brother  'Gustus  's 
in  Philadelphy — works  there.  That's  how  'Melia  Rill  come 
to  have  it,  you  see.  I  guess  I  know  jest  where  to  lay  my 
hand  on  it ;  I  guess  it's  the  third  paper  from  the  bottom  in 
the  old  pile.  It's  quite  a  spell  ago.  But  I  remember  jest 
as  plain.  Land  !  I  guess  I  do  !  I  tell  ye  what  'tis,  Wil- 
helminy  Armstrong,  when  you  see  a  woman  kinder  dif'rent 
'n'  kinder  takin',  somehow,  'n'  kinder  not  takin',  either,  you 
may  jest  be  sure  't  there's  be'n  somethin'  or  other  in  their 
lives  that  won't  bear  too  much  light." 

Here  the  clicking  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  Miss  Cobb 
turned  the  opening  in  her  sunbonnet  to  me  again,  gazing  in- 
tently at  me,  her  gaze  seeming  intensified  by  the  concentra- 
tion, if  I  may  call  it  thus,  of  her  glance  in  the  bottom  of  her 
bonnet. 

"  I've  been  awful  'fraid,  sometimes,"  she  said,  "  when  I've 
be'n  thinkin'  of  you,  Wilhelminy,  that  you  was  one  of  them 
kind  yourself.  I  hope  not;  I  do  hope  not,  for  your  poor 
mother's  sake  f ' 


72  IN    THE   FIRST   PERSON 

"What  kind?"  I  asked,  sharply.  "That  I'd  done  some- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of  ?" 

"  No — not  that,  eggsackly.  I  can't  tell  jest  what  I  do 
mean.     I  s'pose  now  you're  mad  's  you  can  be,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  I  am — some  mad,"  I  acknowledged. 

Then  I  asked  myself  why  I  should  care  what  this  woman 
said ;  and  why  her  words  should  produce  a  kind  of  excite- 
ment as  well  as  indignation.     I  tried  to  laugh. 

"  I  always  did  say  you  hadn't  ought  to  have  be'n  sent 
to  that  boardin'-school.  You  ought  to  have  be'n  kep'  to 
home." 

I  stopped  in  my  walk  and  I  caught  hold  of  Miss  Cobb's 
arm.  "What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked.  "What's  the  matter 
with  me  ?" 

"  Nothin',"  with  a  sharp  click,  "  'n'  I'm  jest  a  fool,  that's 
all.     Here  we  be  'most  to  the  bars." 

At  the  bars  she  paused  long  to  enough  say : 

"  I  s'pose  'twas  your  face  's  you  come  in  to-day  after 
you'd  seen  them  folks  that  made  me  say  such  foolish 
things.  But  you  always  was  kind  of  a  favoright  of  mine. 
Yes,  here  we  be  to  the  bars.  That  top  one  'most  always 
sticks.  How  strong  you  be  !"  as  the  rail  clattered  down 
beneath  my  hands.  "  Come  right  in  't  the  back  door.  Can 
you  see  any  of  them  folks  stirrin'  ?  No,  there  ain't  nobody 
in  sight.  Likely  's  not  they're  gone  to  bed.  Folks  that 
stay  up  all  night  'n'  have  suppers  of  hearty  victuals  at 
eleven  o'clock  must  go  to  bed  some  time." 

Miss  Cobb  began  to  fit  the  key  in  the  door,  but  her  eyes 
were  so  drawn  down  to  the  locality  where  one  could  dimly 
distinguish  the  glossy,  bright  side  of  the  wagon  among  the 
trees  that  her  key  went  here  and  there,  but  not  into  its  proper 
place.  I  stood  as  patiently  as  I  could.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  third  paper  from  the  bottom  in  the  old  pile. 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  73 

At  last  Miss  Cobb's  key  went  in  quite  accidentally  and 
was  turned ;  the  door  opened,  and  I  followed  my  compan- 
ion into  the  little  "entry"  that  was  not  large  enough  to 
hold  us  without  a  great  deal  of  crowding.  How  hot  it  was 
at  the  west  side  of  that  bit  of  a  house  !  It  stood  sheltered 
from  the  wind,  and  the  sun  had  been  shining  on  it  all  the 
afternoon.  There  was  a  close  smell,  as  of  heated  flannel, 
diffused  in  the  rooms. 

"It  doos  git  close  here,"  remarked  the  owner.  "  You  se' 
down." 

I  sat  down,  gasping.  There  was  one  plate,  one  cup  and 
saucer,  and  one  spoon,  with  a  knife  and  fork,  set  rigidly  on 
a  table  drawn  against  the  wall.  The  cover  was  large  blue 
and  white  squares,  over  which  a  few  flies  walked  investi- 
gatingly.  Rachel  said  she  liked  to  have  her  table  set ;  it 
seemed  more  social  like.  To  me  it  appeared  one  of  the 
most  desolate,  unsocial  sights  I  had  ever  seen. 

Miss  Cobb  hung  her  bag  on  one  of  a  row  of  nails  that 
ran  along  against  the  wall.  She  hung  her  sunbonnet 
on  another,  patted  her  hair  a  little,  then  went  straight  to 
a  closet,  the  door  of  which  she  flung  open.  She  brought 
a  chair  and  climbed  into  it.  I  saw  piles  of  newspapers.  I 
rose  and  also  walked  to  the  closet.  I  eagerly  held  out  my 
hand,  and  I  knew  that  my  hand  trembled.  She  had  been 
right.     She  knew  just  where  to  find  what  she  sought. 

"  There  !"  she  dropped  the  paper  towards  me.  "  You 
jest  see  what  you  make  of  it.  There's  several  places  where 
she's  mentioned." 

I  walked  out  of  doors,  notwithstanding  her  request  that 
I  read  where  I  was.  There  was  a  chopping-block  standing 
by  a  pile  of  "  trash  wood."  I  sat  down  on  this  block.  The 
first  thing  my  eye  caught  was  a  paragraph  beginning : 

"  Perhaps    Miss   Runciman    is    not   Miss    Runciman    at 


74 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


all."  I  read  rapidly.  "  This  famous — or  shall  we  say  noto- 
rious?— woman  declined  to  state,  when  questioned,  whether 
her  name  is  really  the  name  by  which  she  has  become  so 
well  known.  She  said  that  was  her  affair,  which  is  very 
true.  She  has  displayed  a  good  deal  of  shrewdness  and 
sagacity.  Probably  she  is  a  genius.  At  any  rate  she  is  as 
good,  or  as  bad,  as  a  genius.  And  now,  more  than  ever, 
people  are  nocking  to  hear  her  sing.  And  she  sings  bet- 
ter than  ever,  with  an  indescribable  fervor,  passion,  aban- 
do?i,  which  sweep  her  audience  along.  Still,  she  never 
oversteps  ;  there  is  always  that  subtle  restraint  which,  after 
all,  is  the  hall-mark  of  genius.  Leonora  Runciman's  vogue 
was  never  greater  than  now." 

I  read  this  paragraph  through  twice,  each  time  as  if  with 
one  sweep  of  my  eye.  Then  I  turned  the  sheet ;  I  turned 
it  about  and  about.     Presently  I  saw  another  paragraph  : 

"The  crowd  at  the  opera  went  wild  over  Miss  Runci- 
man's Lucia  last  night.  It  was  really  magnificent.  It  is 
a  curious  fact  that  the  women  stand  her  friends  as  they 
do.  They  say  she  is  the  most  maligned  person  in  the 
world  just  now.  But  women,  when  they  do  take  up  an- 
other woman,  are  as  unreasonable  as  a  flock  of  sheep. 
It  is  likely  to  be  all  feeling  with  them.  There  is  one 
woman,  however,  who  will  not,  probably,  profess  any  love 
or  admiration  for  the  prima  (donna,  and  that  is  Mrs.  Drew 
Hollander." 

What  did  these  insinuations  mean  ?  Of  course  I  did 
not  know  ;  but  the  keen  bitterness,  the  sneer,  I  did  rec- 
ognize. 

My  heart  was  sinking  like  lead.  What  if  mother  knew 
this  ?  I  was  not  aware  that  sometimes  too  much  weight 
need  not  be  given  to  the  innuendo  of  a  newspaper ;  I  was 
ignorant  that  some  papers  print  a  paragraph  one  day  that 


NEWSPAPER    PARAGRAPHS  75 

they  may  deny  it  the  next.  Anything  in  a  public  print 
was  of  mighty  consequence  to  me. 

I  hurriedly  scanned  every  bit  of  the  paper.  But  I  could 
find  nothing  more,  save  the  advertisement  of  the  appear- 
ance of  Miss  Runciman  in  Ernani.  Of  course  Rachel 
Cobb  had  found  this.  She  found  everything.  I  wished  to 
do  some  bodily  injury  to  her.  Why  was  she  nosing  about 
among  'Melia  Rill's  old  things  ?  I  flung  the  paper  from 
me  with  an  exclamation.  I  saw  Rachel's  face  at  the  win- 
dow over  the  sink.  She  was  looking  out  at  me.  The 
breeze  carried  the  paper  away,  and  I  heard  it  rustle  as  if 
a  hand  had  caught  it.  A  hand  had  caught  it.  Miss  Run- 
ciman herself  was  coming  along  the  path  that  led  to  the 
door.  She  was  carrying  a  small  basket.  She  was  prob- 
ably coming  for  more  eggs.  This  was  my  frivolous  thought 
as  I  first  saw  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  has  the  poor  newspaper  done? 
And  do  you  think  Miss  Cobb's  hens  have  laid  any  eggs 
to-day  ?" 

I  did  not  notice  her  words  ;  I  only  heard  them  mechan- 
ically. I  jumped  down  from  the  chopping-block  and  walked 
towards  the  lady.  I  was  foolishly  excited.  If  I  had  had 
time  to  think  I  should  not  have  said  what  I  did. 

"Miss  Runciman,"  I  asked,  quickly,  "why  was  it  that 
the  women  stood  your  friends  ?" 

She  seemed  to  stiffen  slightly  as  she  stood  ;  but  I  did 
not  notice  that  her  face  changed ;  I  was  not,  however,  very 
well  acquainted  with  her  face,  yet — 

"What?"  she  said. 


V 

"to  you,  my  love,  to  you" 

"  Why  did  the  women  stand  your  friends  ?"  I  repeated 
as  steadily  as  I  could ;  but  I  was  now  beginning  to  be 
frightened  at  my  own  audacity  in  putting  the  question  at  all. 

Miss  Runciman  began  to  smile.  Her  eyes  sparkled.  She 
glanced  down  at  the  paper  crushed  in  her  grasp.  And  I, 
following  her  glance,  had  a  curious  notion  that  that  strong 
hand  might  crush  a  great  many  things.  But  before  she 
made  any  reply  she  put  her  basket  on  the  ground  and 
examined  the   paper. 

"Ah  !"  she  said,  "  ten  years  ago  !  Newspaper  rot  ten 
years  old  !  Who  has  been  giving  you  this  stuff  ?"  (Her 
eyes  travelled  over  the  columns  as  she  spoke.) 

"  Miss  Rachel  Cobb,"  I  replied,  concisely. 

"  Oh  !  And  she  is  doubtless  watching  us  now  from  some- 
where.    Yes,  there  she  is  !" 

Certainly,  Rachel  was  still  looking  through  the  window 
over  the  sink. 

Miss  Runciman  nodded  at  the  face  as  seen  through  the 
glass.     "Good-morning,  Miss  Cobb!"  she  called  out. 

Miss  Cobb  left  her  place  of  observation  and  came  to  the 
open  door.     She  looked  confused. 

"  It  was  'Melia  Rill's  paper,"  she  said.  "  Her  brother 
'Gustus  has  worked  in  Philadelphy  for  a  good  many  years." 

She  actually  had  the  air  of  apologizing. 


"to  you,  my  love,  to  you"  77 

"  I'm  sure  you  ought  to  be  grateful  to  'Melia  Rill,"  re- 
sponded Miss  Runciman.     "  You  are,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Rachel;  and  then,  hastily,  "I  mean 
no,  I  ain't  grateful ;  I  don't  care  nothin'  about  it ;  it  ain't 
nothin'  to  me." 

"  But  you  saved  the  paper,  my  dear  Miss  Cobb.  You 
had  a  feeling  that  you'd  need  it  some  time,  eh  ?" 

The  speaker's  eyes,  with  metallic  brightness,  looked  over 
the  old  maid's  figure  in  a  relentless  way. 

Rachel  rallied.  She  stood  more  firmly,  and  she  grasped 
the  side  of  the  door  with  one  hand.  Her  little  pig-like  face 
grew  braver. 

"  I  d'  know,"  she  said,  "  's  you  need  to  look  at  me  like 
that,  Miss  Runciman,  if  you  be  Miss  Runciman,  or  whoever 
you  be,  anyway.  I  guess  I've  got  a  right  to  save  'Melia 
Rill's  old  papers  if  I  want  to.  Yes,"  gathering  courage, 
"  'n'  I  guess  I've  got  a  right  to  show  urn,  too." 

"  Bravo  !"  cried  Miss  Runciman,  and  there  was  such  a  sneer 
in  her  face  and  voice  that  I  quite  shrank  for  Rachel's  sake. 

"  I  d'  know  what  you  mean  by  your  outlandish  words," 
said  the  woman  in  the  doorway. 

She  turned  away  and  sat  down.  I  could  see  her  sitting 
there  looking  white  and  tired. 

Miss  Runciman  saw  her,  too,  and  the  next  moment  her 
aspect  changed.  The  glitter  left  her  eyes.  She  advanced 
to  the  doorway.     How  cordial  her  voice  was  as  she  said : 

"We  are  not  going  to  quarrel,  though,  are  we,  Miss  Cobb? 
If  you  knew  as  much  about  public  life  and  newspapers  as 
I  do  you  wouldn't  have  saved  this  thing,"  dropping  the 
paper  on  the  floor.  She  had  now  evidently  cast  the  whole 
matter  behind  her.  She  went  on,  still  with  that  air  of  good- 
fellowship  :  "  I  do  hope  your  hens  have  laid  some  more 
eggs,  Miss  Cobb.      I  want  every  one  you  can  spare." 


78  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Rachel  drew  a  long  breath.  She  gazed  wonderingly  at 
the  woman  before  her.  I  don't  know  why  there  seemed 
something  pitiable  in  her  appearance  to  me  at  that  mo- 
ment. Her  face  changed  from  its  expression  of  anger  and 
suspicion  to  something  I  had  never  before  seen  on  her 
countenance.  But  then  I  had  never  taken  much  notice  of 
Rachel  Cobb's  face,  save  to  be  glad  mine  was  not  like  it, 
not  that  mine  was  anything  to  boast  of,  Heaven  knows. 
She  rose  ;  she  extended  her  hand  for  the  basket. 

"  I  guess  I  c'n  spare  you  a  few,"  she  said.  "  You'd  better 
come  in  while  I  git  um." 

As  Miss  Runciman  stepped  over  the  threshold  I  walked 
away.  But  I  purposely  kept  in  the  path  that  she  would 
naturally  take  when  she  returned  to  her  carriage. 

Presently  I  sat  down  under  a  tree  and  waited.  It  was 
very  hot ;  the  tree  branches  hardly  protected  me  from  the 
afternoon  sun  that  kept  searching  me  out  more  and  more 
warmly.  But  I  was  not  hot ;  I  was  cold  :  I  seemed  to  be 
cold  with  suspicious  questioning.  Who  was  Mrs.  Drew 
Hollander,  and  why  wouldn't  she  stand  by  the  prima  don- 
na? And  perhaps,  if  father  knew  about  those  paragraphs, 
even  he  would  withdraw  his  consent  to  my  going  with  that 
woman.  And  I  kept  thinking  of  what  mother  had  said 
about  something  that  was  glittering,  but  was  not  good. 
More  and  more  I  was  convinced  that  1  must  find  out  for 
myself  whether  it  was  good  or  not. 

The  sun  was  certainly  very  bright.  I  turned  ;  I  stretched 
myself  out  on  the  grass,  with  my  head  so  that  my  gaze 
could  take  in  the  space  down  below  there  at  the  foot  of  the 
falls.  The  lovely  mist  rose  up  from  the  falling  water  ;  I 
heard  the  soft  monotone  of  the  falls.  Yes,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment I  heard  something  else — a  female  voice,  not  far  from 
me,  beginning  to  sing.     I  held  myself  rigidly  still,  fur  I  did 


"  TO    YOU,   MY    LOVE,    TO    YOU  "  79 

not  wish  to  lose  a  note.  I  was  sure  it  was  Bathsheba  Hil- 
dreth  singing.  At  first  she  seemed  to  be  playing  with  a 
few  notes,  tossing  them  about  and  catching  them  again.  I 
had  always  envied  the  possessor  of  a  contralto  voice,  and 
now  I  began  to  envy  this  girl. 

I  couldn't  make  out  at  all  what  she  was  singing,  for  at 
last  she  did  sing  some  song — or,  rather,  a  sort  of  recitative, 
which  changed  into  a  song,  mellow  and  sweet  and  per- 
suasive, but  surely  lacking  somehow.  I  was  wicked,  for  I 
was  distinctly  glad  that  this  voice  was  lacking.  I  knew  I 
was  mean-spirited.  Gradually  I  sat  up,  that  I  might  listen 
the  better.  I  had  no  more  than  gained  an  upright,  sitting 
position  than  the  singing  stopped,  and  at  the  same  moment 
I  was  saying  to  myself:  "She  flats;  it  is  horrible  to  flat." 
I  began  to  go  over  in  my  mind,  on  a  higher  key,  what  I 
had  just  heard. 

Almost  immediately  a  man's  voice,  farther  away — Vane 
Hildreth's  voice  —  took  up  the  tune  lightly,  but  dropped  it 
directly  to  say,  with  brotherly  frankness  : 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  get  over  your  flatting  in  the  least." 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  whether  I  did  or  not,"  was  the  retort. 

There  was  a  slight  rustling ,  then  a  hand  put  aside  a 
branch  close  to  me,  and  Miss  Hildreth's  face  appeared 
among  the  green  leaves.  "  You've  been  listening !"  she 
exclaimed. 

I  nodded. 

"  Well,  then,  do  you  think  I  flat?"  she  asked. 

I  hesitated,  then  I  nodded  again. 

"  Oh,  the  devil  you  do  !"  said  this  young  lady.  Then  : 
"  You  mustn't  mind  my  saying  'the  devil.'  It's  enough  to 
make  any  one  say  it.  and  worse  to  be  told  that  you  flat. 
But  I  don't  believe  it,  all  the  same.  I  kept  to  the  key. 
Just  listen  !" 


80  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

She  burst  tumultuously  into  something  that  I  knew  after- 
wards was  a  song  of  Azucena's.  I  thought  she  sang  glori- 
ously, and  told  her  so. 

"  But  did  I  flat  ?" 

"  Ye-es,"  I  answered,  hesitatingly. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Yes." 

Then,  to  my  utter  surprise,  Bathsheba  Hildreth  threw 
herself  forward  on  the  grass  and  began  to  cry  with  fury 
and  considerable  noise.  I  did  not  quite  dare  to  beg  of  her 
to  stop.  She  paused  in  her  sobs  long  enough  to  articulate 
indistinctly :  "  You  must  know  that  the  woman  who  flats  is 
as  bad  as  the  one  who  hesitates." 

Then  she  sobbed  again. 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  becomes  of  her,"  I  said. 

She  raised  her  swollen  face.  "  Oh,  the  d —  I  mean 
oh,  good  gracious  !     Don't  you  ?     Oh,  that  is  good  !" 

"Is  it?"  I  asked,  irritably. 

"  Yes,  indeed !" 
•    She  sat  up.     "Why,"  she  said,  "she  is  lost." 

"Oh!" 

I  was  deeply  chagrined.  I  thought  some  one  might  have 
told  me  before  this  about  that  woman. 

This  ignorance  of  mine  seemed  to  compensate  Miss  Hil- 
dreth in  some  way  for  my  having  told  her  she  flatted.  She 
drew  a  handkerchief  from  the  pocket  of  her  blouse  and 
dried  her  face. 

Somebody  else  now  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  tree. 
It  was  Miss  Hildreth's  brother,  and  he  inquired  : 

"  Was  that  you  blubbering,  Bashy  ?" 

"No;  it  was  Miss  Armstrong,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 
"  She  was  crying  because  she  can  never  hope  to  sing  as 
well  as  I  do." 


"TO    YOU,   MY    LOVE,    TO    YOU  "  8l 

The  young  man  looked  at  me  and  took  off  his  cap  with 
great  gravity. 

"  Be  sure  you  are  right  technically,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were 
giving  a  lessen.  "  First  be  as  mechanically  correct  as  a  ma- 
chine, then,  put  all  the  feeling  you  choose  into  your  voice, 
but  be  a  machine  first." 

"  Oh,  bosh  !"  from  the  sister. 

"That's  one  reason  why  Bashy  fails,"  he  went  on; 
"she  has  omitted  the  machine  stage,  and  another  reason 
is,  she  hasn't  the  voice.  Two  serious  defects,  Miss  Arm- 
strong." 

I  could  not  help  gazing  curiously  at  these  two  people. 
But  they  did  not  appear  to  notice  me  much.  I  wondered 
if  they  knew  anything  about  Mrs.  Drew  Hollander.  But 
that  had  been  "  newspaper  rot  ten  years  ago,"  and  ten  years 
ago  these  two,  like  myself,  had  been  far  more  childish  than 
we  were  at  present. 

Vane   Hildreth  looked  at  me  now. 

"  Perhaps,  as  the  Dominie  says  in  Guy  Mannering,  you 
will  kindly  cantata  with  us  —  just  for  fun,  you  know,  Miss 
Armstrong." 

"Oh  no!     No!" 

His  eyes  dwelt  on  my  face. 

"  I  think  you  can  sing,"  he  said.  "  I  suppose  not  at  pres- 
ent, but  some  time." 

I  rose.  I  said  something  about  being  obliged  to  go.  I 
hurried  away  and  almost  ran  into  Miss  Runciman,  but,  fort- 
unately, I  did  not  break  the  eggs  she  was  carrying  in  the 
basket.     She  paused  in  her  walk. 

"What  have  they  been  doing  to  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Nothing." 

I  had  glanced  at  the  woman's  face.  It  was  cold  and 
hard,  and  the  metallic  glitter  was  in  her  eyes.     She  did  not 


82  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

linger.  If  I  had  ever  thought  she  was  interested  in  me  I  did 
not  think  so  now.  She  walked  on  without  saying  another 
word,  and  I  hurried  back  home,  feeling  snubbed  .and  dis- 
carded, and  wondering  how  I  could  ever,  even  in  view  of 
her  own  words,  have  had  any  belief  in  Leonora  Runciman's 
apparent  interest  in  me. 

I  found  the  family  just  sitting  down  to  the  supper-table. 
Father  was  in  excessively  good  spirits.  He  had  just  sold  a 
horse  to  Mr.  Maverick,  who  was  coming  the  next  day  for 
the  animal. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  father,  "  I  made  him  pay  for  wearin'  a 
ring  like  that.  I  ast  him  exactly  fifty  dollars  more  on  ac- 
count of  that  di'mond."  Here  the  speaker  gave  a  laugh  and 
reached  forward  for  more  griddle-cakes. 

"  But,  Lemuel,"  began  mother,  in  her  gentle  voice,  "  do 
you  think  that  was  quite  fair  ?" 

"  Pooh  !"  good-naturedly;  "you  jest  tend  to  your  religion, 
Serissy,  'n'  Til  run  the  other  kind  of  things.  I  know  more 
about  a  hoss  trade  in  a  minute  than  you'd  know  in  a  year. 
I'm  goin'  to  git  you  V  Billy  some  kind  of  a  present  with 
that  extra  fifty  dollars."  He  looked  at  me.  "  How's  the 
opery  business,  Billy  ?" 

I  said,  gloomily,  that  I  didn't  know.  Mother  glanced  at 
me  anxiously,  but  father  went  on  with  his  griddle-cakes, 
smacking  and  gurgling  over  them.  I  felt  sick  and  tired  of 
everything.  Life  seemed  one  great  confusion,  and  I  felt 
myself  very  old. 

I  washed  the  dishes  and  hurried  off  to  walk  somewhere 
until  bedtime.  I  did  not  want  to  even  see  mother.  I  was 
continually  thinking  of  Miss  Runciman's  cold,  hard  face.  I 
don't  think  I  cared  very  much  for  what  I  had  read  in  the 
newspaper  Rachel  Cobb  had  shown  me.  Those  paragraphs 
made  the  prima  donna  more   mysterious   and  interesting. 


"  TO    VOU,  MY    LOVE,   TO    YOU  "  83 

But  nothing  mattered.  I  should  have  to  stay  at  home  and 
be  just  nothing.  It  was  too  bad — oh  yes,  it  was  too  bad. 
There  was  no  doubt  at  all  about  Miss  Runciman  being:  a 
woman  of  whims. 

"  I  just  about  hate  her  P  I  said,  aloud. 

I  was  leaning  on  the  top  rail  of  a  fence  that  divided  our 
11  mowing  "  from  the  pasture-land.  Twilight  was  deepen- 
ing. The  whippoorwills  were  calling  down  below  there. 
The  sky  was  clear,  and  the  summer  air  sweet  and  soft.  But 
something  had  taken  the  charm  away.  I  could  hear  the 
sound  of  the  falls  in  the  valley,  and  the  sound  brought  still 
more  plainly  to  my  mind  the  encampment  there.  I  had  never 
seen  such  people  before.  But  then  I  had  never  seen  much 
of  the  world,  though  when  I  had  come  home  from  Hadley  I 
thought  myself  quite  worldly-wise.  That  was  two  years  ago ; 
I  hadn't  been  wise  at  all  at  the  time  ;  I  knew  that  now. 

I  began  to  hum  the  gypsy  song  I  had  heard  that  girl  sing. 
I  remembered  every  note  of  it.  I  pitched  it  higher,  how- 
ever.    I  had  a  high  voice  in  singing. 

For  the  second  time  I  began,  and  was  part  through  it 
when  I  became  aware  that  some  one  was  whistling  an  ac- 
companiment. I  staggered  on  with  the  inarticulate  song 
for  a  moment;  then  I  stopped  and  looked  about. 

A  brindle  dog  advanced  from  the  gloom  of  a  huckleberry- 
thicket  and  came  to  me,  slowly  wagging  his  tail.  He  was 
immediately  followed  by  his  master,  Vane  Hildreth,  who 
took  off  his  cap,  saying  as  he  did  so  : 

"  Stage  set  for  sylvan  scene.  Heroine  leaning  on  fence, 
singing.  Enter  hero  in  corduroys  with  his  faithful  dog.  He 
advances  up  right  front  to  heroine,  takes  her  hand,  kisses 
it  respectfully,  and  asks  her  how  she  does." 

Mr.  Hildreth  took  my  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  as  I  was 
not  at  all  used  to  such  salutes,  I  felt  my  face  growing  hot 


84  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

and  uncomfortable.  There  was  a  certain  air  about  him, 
too,  which  I  did  not  understand.  I  pulled  away  my  hand 
and  said  I  was  very  well,  and  just  thinking  about  going  home. 

He  made  no  response  to  this  information,  but  asked  me, 
with  a  great  appearance  of  interest,  if  I  remembered  that 
Azucena  song  just  from  hearing  Bashy  sing  it. 

"Yes,  I  had  never  heard  it  before,"  I  said. 

"Some  people  can  remember  like  that,"  he  remarked; 
"it's  a  gift.  But  you're  soprano,"  in  apparent  surprise,  and 
as  if  he  were  saying,  "  You're  English,  when  I  supposed  you 
were  Hottentot." 

"  Of  course  I'm  soprano,"  I  answered. 

He  still  held  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  he  leaned  on  the 
rail  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  contemplated  me  steadily, 
much  as  though  he  were  looking  for  the  reason  for  my  hav- 
ing that  kind  of  a  voice. 

I  gave  him  a  quick  look,  which  made  me  think  his  face 
very  foreign  indeed,  as  I  had  first  thought  it— quite  outland- 
ish, in  fact.  His  long  eyes  were  now  well  opened,  and  did 
not  have  a  languid  appearance.  I  had  had  a  fancy,  such 
as  I  imagine  many  young  girls  have,  that  I  could  make  up 
my  mind  immediately  concerning  a  person,  could  guess  cor- 
rectly as  to  what  his  or  her  leading  tendencies  were,  and  I 
knew  at  one  glimpse  as  to  whether  the  person  was  going  to 
find  favor  in  my  eyes. 

But  I  didn't  know  whether  I  liked  this  young  man  or  not. 
At  one  moment  I  was  sure  I  should  like  him  extremely ;  at 
the  next  I  thought  quite  the  opposite.  I  recalled  that  his 
aunt  had  said  of  him  that  he  had  a  pretty  tenor  and  made 
rather  a  good  operatic  lover.  I  had  a  sudden,  deeply  rooted 
feeling  that  I  despised  any  man  who  "  made  a  good  oper- 
atic lover." 

"  It's  really  astonishing  that  you  are  soprano,"  he  now  said. 


"to  you,  my  love,  to  you"  85 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  overturn  all  my  theories." 

"  I'm  so  sorry  to  do  that,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  you  ought  to  be  sorry,"  he  responded,  "for  it's 
a  dreadful  thing  to  do — to  crash  right  into  one's  theories. 
You'll  have  to  make  it  up  to  me  in  some  way." 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I'm  not  called  upon  to  do  that.  Good- 
night, Mr.  Hildreth." 

"  Don't  go,  please,"  as  I  turned.  "  It  seems  so  kind  of 
romantic  to  meet  you  here.  If  you'll  stay  a  bit  longer  I'll 
sing  to  you.  It's  something  I'm  getting  up  for  an  encore 
next  season.  You  see,  we  poor  singers  have  to  be  pegging 
at  something  even  when  we  are  doing  nothing.  Our  vaca- 
tions are  poisoned  by  the  fact  that  we  have  to  see  that  our 
voices  don't  get  rusty.  My  aunt  would  kill  us  ruthlessly  if 
we  should  permit  a  rusty  note.  Don't  you  want  me  to  sing 
to  you,  Miss  Armstrong  ?" 

I  certainly  did  wish  very  earnestly  to  hear  him  sing.  I 
turned  back  and  leaned  on  the  fence  again.  The  brindled 
dog  sat  down  on  his  haunches  with  a  resigned  appearance, 
glancing  at  his  master  and  then  at  me. 

"  I  warn  you,"  said  Hildreth,  "  that  it's  real  sentimental, 
and  I'm  going  to  sing  right  at  you." 

"Very  well  ;   I'll  try  to  bear  it,"  I  replied. 

"  So  good  of  you,"  was  the  response.  The  young  man 
cleared  his  voice  and  flung  up  his  head,  his  eyes  fixed  on  me. 
I  was  a  bit  excited,  but  I  took  a  nonchalant  attitude  and  com- 
pelled myself  to  look  at  him,  though  I  fixed  my  gaze  judi- 
ciously on  the  tip  of  his  nose.     So  he  began.     This  is  what 

he  sang: 

"To  you,   my  love,  to  you, 
I  drink  this  crimson  wine  ; 
To  you,  my  love,  to  you, 

I  brine  this  heart  of  mine." 


86  IN    THE    FIRST    TERSON 

Before  lie  had  finished  the  second  line  I  knew  very  well 
what  Miss  Runciman  had  meant  by  calling  her  nephew  a 
tenor  lover.  He  had  not  a  remarkably  powerful  voice,  but 
tin-  tones  were  heart-breakingly  sweet,  and  he  sang  in  what 
seemed  a  wickedly  impassioned  way.  The  tears  gathered 
in  my  eyes  ;  my  heart  beat  heavily.  I  stopped  gazing  at 
the  young  man's  nose;  my  eyelids  drooped  until  I  saw 
nothing. 

Mi'  sang  two  verses  of  that  commonplace  stuff;  but  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  commonplace,  his  singing  was  so  de- 
licious. Still,  I  was  afraid  of  it.  And  he  sang  at  me  so 
that  I  could  easily  have  thought  it  was  really  for  me  ;  and 
this  notion  made  me  just  enough  indignant  to  tone  me  up 
a  little.  But  1  couldn't,  to  save  my  life,  prevent  the  tears 
from  coming. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  last  line  the  dog  suddenly  rose 
to  his  feet,  the  hair  along  his  backbone  stood  up  stiffly,  and 
he  growled.  Mr.  llildreth  finished  his  line,  however,  but 
he  had  no  more  than  done  so  when  in  the  deepened  dusk 
a  figure  Stepped  from  the  same  clump  of  huckleberries, 
strode  up  to  the  singer,  and  put  a  hand  rudely  on  his 
shoulder. 

Mr.  llildreth  flung  himself  about.  The  do^  leaped  for- 
waid  at  the  intruder,  and  1  did  not  scream,  though  I  choked 
in  the  suppression  of  a  cry. 

It  was  Bid  well  Blake  who  had  thus  reprehensibly  ap- 
peared, and  who  now  caught  the  leaping  dog  and  threw 
him  over  the  fence. 

Bidwell  was  in  his  overalls  and  jumper,  and  he  imme- 
diately Stepped  back  and  said,  in  his  cool  drawl: 

"  1  guess  you'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Mr,  Singer.  I  didn't 
mean  to  tip  you  over,  but  1  s'pose  it's  kinder  hard  to  keep 
your  balance  'n'  sing  like  that  at   the  same  time.     Mebby 


"TO    YOU,    MY    LOVE,    TO    YOU  "  <^7 

you'd  better  call  your  dog  off.     If  1  should  git  hold  of  him 
agin  I  might  throw  him  further." 

Mr.  Hildreth  straightened  himself  and  seemed  to  swal- 
low something.  Then  he  spoke  to  his  dog,  who  did  not 
come,  but  who  stood  a  few  yards  away  growling  and  grin- 
ning. 

Bidwell  contemplated  the  other  young  man  in  a  way  that 
could  not  have  been  soothing. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "  now  'bout  how  much  would  they 
pay  ye  for  singhV  like  that  to  urn,  eh?"  He  puckered  his 
mouth  and  whistled  the  strain,  "  To  you,  my  love,  to  you." 
Then  he  asked  again,  "Good  pay.  eh  ?" 

"  Excellent,"  was  the  reply.  The  singer  put  on  his  cap, 
took  it  off  again,  bowed  to  me,  and  then  walked  away,  fol- 
lowed, growling,  by  his  dog. 

Bidwell  pushed  back  his  big  straw  hat  as  if  the  better 
to  watch  the  retreating  figure.  Then  he  began  to  laugh, 
silently,  but  with  great  apparent  enjoyment.  And  1  laughed 
too,  though  the  strains  of  the  song  were  still  ringing  in 
my  ears. 

Finally  I  said  :  "  You're  a  regular  brute,  Bid." 

"I  know  it,"  he  said,  "but  that  feller  ain't  ;  that  feller's 
sweet  as  honey  in  the  comb;  but  1  ain't  the  kind  of  dirt 
lie's  goin'  to  walk  on — not  by  a  long  chalk.  Let  me  see 
you  home,  billy.  If  you  stay  here  he  may  come  'n'  sing- 
to  ye  some  more;  in  which  case  I'd  knock  his  little  damn 
head  off.  If  you'll  kindly  overlook  my  language,  Billy,  1 
sh'll  be  thankful.'1 

I  was  tried  with  bidwell,  but  he  was  usually  so  good- 
natured  that  you  couldn't  hold  out  in  a  bad  temper  against 
him. 

1  turned  away  and  began  to  walk  towards  home.  Bidwell 
jumped  over  the  fence  and  walked  beside  me.      lie  talked 


gg  IX    rill"     FIRST    PERSON 

.1  pood  deal,  but  1  could  not  follow  him,  and  at  last  gave 
up  trying  to  do  so.  After  a  while  he  grew  silent.  When 
we  reached  the  house  he  would  not  come  in. 

Father  was  smoking  near  the  back  door.     '•Hullo!"  he 

called  out:  "that  you.  Fully?  Who've  you  got  with  you?" 
1  told  him  it  was  Bid  Blake.  Bid  looked  at  me  in  the 
dusk.  I  sat  down  on  the  bench  with  father,  who  puffed 
serenely  at  his  pipe.  Bid  lingered  a  moment:  then  he  said 
good-night,  and  his  long  figure  slouched  away  m  the  dusk. 

When  we  were  alone  together  father  said  :  "  Billy,  some- 
thing's happened." 


VI 

"there's  my  nephew,  vane" 

I  drew  nearer  to  father  as  he  said  that. 

"Oh,  what?"  I  exclaimed.  Then,  as  I  saw  how  peace- 
fully he  blew  the  smoke  from  his  lips,  I  thought  that  noth- 
ing very  serious  could  have  occurred. 

"  Your  mother's  gone."  I  rose  quickly,  as  if  I  would  im- 
mediately go  in  search  of  her,  and  my  heart  sank. 

"Yes,"  said  father,  "just  after  you  went  off  this  after- 
noon Nick  Freeman  brought  a  telegram  over  from  the 
depot.  'Twas  from  your  gran'mother.  She's  sick.  There 
was  exactly  time  for  her  to  git  ready  'n'  ride  back  with 
Nick  to  ketch  the  train  for  Kyle,  so  she  went  ;  'n'  we  can't 
know  anything  more  about  it  till  we  c'n  git  a  letter." 

J  stood  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Kyle  was  a  four  hours'" 
ride  away  in  the  steam-cars.  An  unreasonable  dejection 
possession  of  me. 

"  Didn't  she  leave  any  word  for  me?"   I  asked. 

"  She  left  her  love.  She  was  in  an  awful  hurry,  you 
know.  I  s'pose  she  didn't  take  half  the  things  shell  want. 
We'll  have  to  send  'em  to  her,  I  guess." 

"  And  she  left  no  word  for  me  ?"   I  repeated. 

"  Her  love,  I  tell  ye.     She  hadn't  any  time,  you  know." 

Father  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  looked  at  me 
in  the  dusk.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  be  silly,  are  you?"  he 
asked.     "  I  sh'd   think   her  love  was    about   all    she  could 


no  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

leave  ye,  anyway.  Did  I  hear  somebody  singin'  in  the 
paster  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Who  was  it  ?" 

"  Mr.  Vane  Hildreth." 

"  Oh,  the  feller  in  the  fancy  cart  at  the  falls." 

"Yes." 

"Ain't  you  goin'  with  'em,  Lilly?" 

I  moved  uneasily.  How  good-naturedly  father  spoke! 
As  if  he  hadn't  much  interest  in  the  matter,  anyway.  And 
yet  I  moved  again. 

"  Eh  ?"  said  he. 

"  Miss  Runciman  was  coming  over  to  see  mother  to- 
morrow," I  answered. 

"  What  for  ?     1  thought  'twas  all  settled." 

"Yes;  I  think  'tis.  But  she  wanted  to  see  mother. 
Good-night,  father." 

I  hurried  into  the  house.  It  was  desolate.  Aunt  Lowizy 
was  sprinkling  the  clothes  for  to-morrow's  ironing. 

"  Her  goin'  was  dretful  sudden  ;  I  can't  get  used  to  it," 
she  remarked,  as  I  came  to  the  table  where  she  was  at 
work.     Her  words  sounded  as  if  mother  were  dead. 

"  Don't !"  I  cried.     I  ran  up  to  my  own  room. 

Mother  was  never  away  from  home.  Once  a  year  grand- 
mother usually  came  from  Ryle  and  made  us  a  long  visit. 
I  sat  down  by  my  open  window  for  an  hour.  I  could  hear 
the  soft  sound  of  the  falls.  The  scent  of  father's  tobacco 
came  to  me.  When  I  lighted  a  lamp  and  went  to  turn 
down  the  bedclothes  I  found  a  bit  of  paper  pinned  to  my 
pillow.  I  knew  who  had  put  the  paper  there,  and  the  very 
sight  of  it  made  me  sob. 

Mother  had  written  in  pencil:  "It's  hard  to  go  without 
seeing  you.     Am  I  weak   and  foolish  to  wish  you  would 


"  THERE  S    MY    NEPHEW,    VANE  QI 

feel  like  deciding  not  to  go  with  that  singer-woman  ?  God 
bless  and  keep  you,  my  precious  child!"  Below,  in  faint 
marks,  were  the  words  :  "  I  guess  I  wouldn't  tell  your  fa- 
ther.    I  gave  my  permission,  and  I  don't  take  it  back." 

I  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  the  scrap  of  paper 
in  one  hand  and  the  lamp  in  the  other.  I  read  the  words 
over  and  over.  Every  time  I  read  them  I  wished  that  I 
could  make  up  my  mind  to  decide  as  mother  wished  me  to 
decide.  I  felt,  somehow,  sure  that  she  was  right,  though  I 
did  not  know  why.  But  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind — no, 
I  could  not  do  it.  When  I  fell  asleep  I  but  went  over  and 
over,  in  the  confusion  of  dreams,  the  same  matter.  And 
through  the  confusion  I  heard  a  velvet  tenor  voice  singing 
"To  you,  my  love,  to  you."' 

Miss  Runciman  came  the  next  day.  She  came  walking 
up  the  path  with  her  nephew's  dog  at  her  heels.  She  did 
not  seem  in  a  mood  for  much  talking,  and  she  said  very 
little  to  father,  who  kept  at  home,  I  was  sure,  that  he  might 
see  her. 

••  I  want  you  to  bring  over  your  things,"  she  said  to  me. 
';  We  may  stay  here  a  few  days  longer,  and  we  may  go  in  an 
hour."  There  was  a  set  look  about  her  mouth,  and  a  faded 
aspect  to  her  eyes  that  rather  startled  me.  "  Come  with 
me  now,"  she  said,  looking  towards  me.  "  I  want  to  try 
your  voice.  Vane  and  Bashy  have  gone  for  the  day  ;  there'll 
be  no  one  to  hear  us.     Come." 

Of  course,  I  obeyed.  Father  suggested  that  I  come  back 
and  put  my  things  together,  and  he  would  take  them  over. 
I  walked  away,  following  Miss  Runciman  as  she  went 
clown  the  path.  Once  I  looked  back  at  the  house.  There 
came  a  stricture  across  my  chest  that  made  it  difficult  for 
me  to  breathe.  I  thought  I  saw  my  mother  standing  at  the 
open  shed  door  and  beckoning  me  to  return. 


92  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  Miss  Runciman,"  I  said,  suddenly.  She  turned  and 
waited  for  me  to  go  on.  "  I — I — "  but  the  words  would  not 
come.  My  companion  came  to  me  and  took  my'  hands. 
Her  face  softened  with  a  marvellous  quickness. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.     "  Do  you  hesitate  ?" 

I  clung  to  her  hands  that  held  mine  strongly.  I  tried  to 
stand  erect. 

"  No,"  I  answered,  after  a  moment ;  "  I  don't  hesitate." 

She  did  not  say  anything  more,  but  resumed  her  walk,  and 
I  followed  her. 

People  often  come  to  a  parting  of  the  ways,  but  rarely,  I 
think,  are  they  conscious  of  that  moment.  But  I  knew ; 
I  knew  that  I  was  stepping  out  of  my  old  life.  Perhaps  it 
was  some  mysterious  inheritance  from  my  mother,  some 
freak  of  imagination  that  made,  at  the  instant  I  stepped 
again  after  Miss  Runciman,  a  picture  appear  to  unroll  be- 
fore me  of  all  my  past,  even  to  that  time,  which  I  could  but 
just  remember,  when  I  could  not  go  to  sleep  unless  mother 
sat  on  my  bed  and  held  my  hand.  The  picture  of  the 
future  was  blank. 

It  was  curious  that  I  always  believed  that  if  mother  had 
been  at  home  that  day  I  should  not  have  gone  with  Miss 
Runciman.  I  believed  this,  notwithstanding  that  my  char- 
acter contradicts  this  belief.  But  how  little  youth  knows 
of  itself  !  Wait  until  years  have  pointed  out  to  you  the 
furrows  that  this  habit  and  that  inclination  have  made — too 
late  to  smooth  them  out,  too  late  to  etch  the  picture  dif- 
ferently. Why  is  it  that  we  poor  human  beings  must  pay 
such  a  price  for  our  knowledge  ? 

Recalling  the  moment  when  I  walked  down  the  river  path 
that  morning,  I  am  weak  enough  to  moralize,  and  to  be  as 
weak  as  that  is  to  be  very  weak,  indeed.  But  you  may  be 
sure  that  I  did  not  moralize  as  I  went  on  in  this  sunshine. 


"  THERE  S    MY    NEPHEW,   VANE  93 

And  it  was  not  ten  minutes  before  all  ray  morbid  imagin- 
ings had  left  me,  and  I  was  treading  joyously  forward.  As 
we  came  near  Rachel  Cobb's  house,  that  person  was  vis- 
ible behind  the  screen  door.  It  was  one  of  her  days  at 
home.  She  stepped  outside  and  came  forward,  shading 
her  eyes  with  her  hand,  blinking  at  us  and  looking  more 
like  a  pig  than  usual. 

"  I  was  watchhv  for  ye,"  she  said,  without  any  preliminary 
greeting.  "The  young  feller,  your  nephew,"  nodding  at 
Miss  Runciman,  "came  back  to  tell  me  to  tell  you  that 
they  might  stay  all  night,  after  all.  Billy,  where  you 
goin'  ?" 

I  answered  briefly.  I  had  not  much  patience  with 
Rachel  Cobb  this  morning.  She  looked  at  me  intently, 
so  intently  that  I  thought,  perhaps,  her  errand  was  really  to 
me.  When  we  started,  she  followed  on  behind  me.  After  a 
moment  she  touched  my  arm,  and  as  I  looked  around  she 
made  a  gesture  towards  the  woman  in  front,  and  shook  her 
head  with  such  violence  that  her  eye-glasses  fell  off.  She 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  glasses,  and  I  did  not  linger.  She 
called  after  us  that  she  "  guessed  her  hens  would  lay  more 
eggs  by  to-morrer." 

•For  the  first  time  I  entered  the  house -carriage  which 
stood  among  the  birches  and  hackmatacks  close  by  the  falls. 
I  was  trying  not  to  be  excited.  I  wished  to  look  about 
me  calmly.  It  was  a  little  room,  and  things  were  as  com- 
pact in  it  as  in  a  ship's  cabin.  Matting  was  on  the  floor, 
bamboo  folding-chairs  that  could  be  leaned  against  the 
wall,  a  table  that  folded  up  and  was  also  now  close  to  the 
wall ;  no  pictures,  no  bric-a-brac — a  suggestion  of  nomadic 
life,  as  if  the  place  were  a  kind  of  tent  that  could,  like  the 
other  articles,  be  folded. 

Miss  Runciman  spread  out  one  of  the  chairs  and  placed 


94  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

herself  in  it.  She  told  me  to  sit  down  and  rest.  She  did 
not  speak  again  for  a  full  half-hour.  I  sat  still  and  looked 
about  me.  There  was  a  pile  of  music  on  the  floor  in  one 
corner.  On  the  wall  hung  a  guitar  and  a  banjo.  The  dog 
had  come  in  and  was  lying  stretched  out  on  his  side  near 
me  on  the  matting.  The  windows,  which  were  large,  were 
open  and  protected  by  screens.  Through  them  came  the 
sounds  of  the  country  and  of  the  falls.  A  catbird  sat  on  a 
birch  close  by  and  sang  his  lovely  notes. 

"Well  !"  at  last  said  Miss  Runciman. 

When  I  turned  towards  her  I  knew  that  she  had  been 
watching  me,  and  I  blushed  painfully. 

"Yes,"  1  said. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  put  you  through  the  scale." 

I  braced  myself. 

"  Stand  up." 

I  did  so.     She  continued  looking  at  me. 

"  I  once  knew,"  she  said,  "  a  woman  who  could  sing  the 
scale  in  a  way  to  draw  your  soul  out  of  your  body.     Begin." 

I  began  ;  how  I  went  on  and  finished  I  didn't  know. 
But  the  high  notes  always  were  a  sort  of  inspiration  and 
challenge  to  me.  I  liked  to  seize  them  as  if  I  were  their 
conqueror.  I  stood  there  with  my  hands  clasped  behind 
me,  singing. 

"  Again,"  said  Miss  Runciman. 

I  did  better  the  second  time.  When  I  had  finished  she 
sat  upright  in  her  chair.  There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her 
cheeks. 

"I  was  right,"  she  remarked.  "You  have  the  same 
kind  of  a  voice  that  I  have.  That's  why  I  wanted  you. 
In  you  I  may  renew  my  own  youth,  my  triumphs.  But 
they  will  be  your  own  triumphs,  just  the  same.  Still,  it  all 
depends   upon   you — all.     You  may  have  the  voice  of  an 


"  there's  my  nephew,  vane  "  95 

angel,  but  it  will  not  avail  if  you  haven't  work  in  you.  Can 
you  work — work  like  mad — work  day  and  night,  harder 
than  any  man  ever  toiled  in  the  fields?  Can  you?  For 
that's  what  it  means  to  be  a  good  singer.  Tell  me  ;  can  you 
do  it?     Do  you  want  to  do  it?" 

I  was  on  fire.  Her  questions  were  like  a  stimulating 
draught  to  me.  But  I  could  not  find  any  words  in  which  to 
tell  her.  I  was  trembling  pitiably.  My  companion  was 
looking  at  me  with  probing  eyes,  eyes  that  had  no  compas- 
sion, I  fancied,  and  that  were  searching  me  as  they  would 
have  searched  into  some  musical  mechanism  of  which  their 
owner  would  avail  herself. 

"  Answer  me  ;  do  you  want  to  do  it  ?"  she  repeated. 

I  took  a  step  forward.  "  Yes,  yes  !"  I  cried  out.  "  I 
want  to  do  it."  My  face  and  eyes  were  burning;  furious 
pulses  beat  all  through  me. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  in  a  half -voice;  then  she  laughed  soft- 
ly, as  if  at  some  thought  which  I  had  suggested.  "  Come 
nearer."  I  went  to  the  side  of  her  chair.  "  Do  I  look  like 
a  wicked  woman  ?"  she  inquired. 

The  question  was  so  unexpected  that  I  could  not  speak. 
She  did  not  wait  for  my  answer. 

"  I  wonder  if  people  expect  that  a  person  can  sing  out  of 
a  blank  past.  It  can't  be  done.  Of  course,  musical  sounds 
can  be  made  on  any  musical  instrument.  To  be  able  to  sing 
you  must  be  able  to  live.  The  fulness  of  life !  Do  you  think 
that  means  a  sheet  of  paper  with  nothing  written  on  it  ? 
Bah  !  Some  folks  make  me  sick !  Those  were  pretty  para- 
graphs in  the  paper  that  woman  showed  you — that  little  pig 
woman,  I  mean."  From  flaming  heat  I  began  to  go  down 
towards  icy  coldness.  "The  thought  of  them  makes  you 
shrink  away  from  me  ?" 

'■  No."  I  said. 


96  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  Better  go  back  to  your  home  now.  You  have  the 
chance  now.     Give  up  the  hope  of  singing." 

"  No,"  I  said,  again. 

She  contemplated  me  through  half-shut  eyes,  as  she  had 
done  once  before.     At  last  she  asked  : 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  the  phrase  ' a  woman  with  a  past'  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  have.     What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  it  always  means  something  bad — always." 

She  offered  no  explanation  of  the  remark,  and  I  did  not 
dare  to  ask  for  an  explanation. 

"  People  like  to  say  things,  you  know,"  she  went  on.  "  For 
instance,  a  writer  has  just  put  this  fine  thing  into  his  book  : 
'  The  basis  of  the  musical  temperament  is  sensuality  and 
egotism.'     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  It — it  frightens  me,"  I  answered,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Oh,"  carelessly,  "  his  assertion  doesn't  make  it  a  fact. 
Though  he  may  be  right,  after  all — only  why  didn't  he  make 
it  a  still  more  sweeping  thing  by  saying  the  artistic  temper- 
ament?    That,  now,  would  have  covered  a  wide  ground." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  pile  of  music.  She  selected  a 
sheet  and  turned  towards  me  with  it  in  her  hand. 

"What  are  you  thinking ?"  she  inquired,  quickly. 

And  as  quickly,  without  reflection,  I  answered  : 

"  Of  Mrs.  Drew  Hollander." 

A  deep  red  rose  over  the  woman's  face.  She  waited  an 
instant  before  she  put  her  second  question. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  her  ?" 

"  Nothing.  She  was  mentioned  in  that  paper  Rachel 
Cobb  showed  me.  It  said  that  probably  Mrs.  Drew  Hol- 
lander was  one  of  the  women  who  would  not  stand  by  you. 
Oh,"  I  burst  out  with,  "  I  wish  I  hadn't  said  her  name  !  I 
don't  know  what  made  me  do  it !" 

Miss  Runciman  was  now  pale. 


"there's  my  nephew,  vane"  97 

"  Your  instinctive  truthfulness  made  you  do  it,"  was  the 
response.  "  But  let's  drop  the  subject.  I'm  going  to  sing ; 
I  want  you  to  take  notice  how  I  do  it.  And  have  I  told 
you,"  looking  at  me  with  a  keen,  searching  expression, 
"  your  voice  isn't  cold  to-day.  I  thought  it  was  unaccount- 
able that  it  should  be,  with  your  face.  But  I  fancy  it  is 
liable  to  moods.  Well,  you'll  learn  to  summon  any  mood. 
Now,  listen  to  me." 

She  stood  turning  the  leaves  of  her  music  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  laid  down  the  sheets.  How  strangely,  how  won- 
derfully her  face  softened  !  Even  before  she  had  opened  her 
lips  I  was  conscious  of  the  coming  of  a  delightful  excitement. 

It  was  something  I  had  never  heard  that  she  sang — but, 
then,  I  had  heard  nothing. 

"By  the  first  rose  thou  hap'st  to  meet, 
Send  fondest  greetings  to  my  sweet." 

I  stood  silent  and  agitated.  This,  I  knew,  was  what  was 
meant  by  the  phrase  "perfection  of  technical  culture," 
which  I  had  once  read  applied  to  Jenny  Lind's  singing. 
And  this  was  something  that  Jenny  Lind  had  sung  at  Leip- 
zig. I  was  trying  to  remember  what  I  had  read,  for  by  thus 
exerting  my  memory  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  divert  my 
mind  so  that  I  might  be  able  to  bear  this  voice  which 
pierced  my  soul  as  if  it  were  a  knife  that  could  divide  the 
very  spirit. 

"  In  the  soul  that  vibrated  in  her  tones,  and  in  the 
charm  of  a  peculiar  voix  voilee,  an  inimitably  tender  or- 
gan, her  piano  was  a  breath  such  as  angel  lips  might 
breathe." 

I  kept  up  my  endeavor  to  recall  these  words,  for  I  was 
afraid — of  what  ?  It  must  have  been  for  fear  of  the  loss 
of  that  self-control  which  the  sane  person  grips  hard. 

7 


q8  in  the  first  person 

As  Miss  Runciman  stopped  singing  I  sat  down  suddenly 
in  the  nearest  chair  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands. 
This  was  what  I  had  dreamed  about,  and  longed  for  as 
something  impossible.  It  was  possible,  after  all ;  God  had 
given  something  very  precious  to  some  of  His  children. 
Was  it  possible  that  He  had  given  this  precious  thing  to 
me  ?  What  would  my  mother  think  if  she  had  heard  this 
singing  ?  It  was  from  her  that  I  had  inherited  my  voice, 
though  mine  was  stronger  and  better  in  every  way.  Why 
had  mother  so  often  said  that  she  thought  a  "  musical  gift 
was  a  dangerous  gift"?  But  father  used  to  assert,  with 
his  laugh,  that  "  Serissy  hadn't  much  hard  sense,  anyway. 
Serissy  was  as  full  of  dreams  V  notions  as  an  egg  was  full 
of  meat." 

Miss  Runciman  opened  the  door  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  casing.  She  was  standing  thus  when  I  took 
my  hands  from  my  face  and  timidly  looked  at  her.  I  was 
timid  because  she  seemed  superhuman  to  me  just  at  that 
moment.     Without  turning  her  head,  she  asked  : 

"Did  you  like  it?" 

"  Like  it  ?"  I  repeated,  as  soon  as  I  could  speak.  "  Is 
that  the  way  you  sing  in  public  ?" 

"  Sometimes ;  but  sometimes  I'm  just  a  wooden  ma- 
chine." 

"You  can't  be  wooden." 

"  Can't  I  ?     How  do  you  know  ?" 

She  turned  now  quickly  towards  me  with  that  manner 
which  had  been  hers  when  she  had  stopped  at  my  home, 
the  manner  that  put  you  at  ease  and  somehow  gave  a  stim- 
ulus to  your  mind.  My  spirits  began  to  be  released  and 
to  flow  towards  her.  Instead  of  answering  her  question,  I 
said  : 

"  I  shall  never  sine;  like  that." 


It 


there's  my  nephew,  vane"        99 


"  Not  like  that— better,"  she  responded.  She  smiled  at 
me,  but  her  face  was  very  sad  in  spite  of  her  smile.  ';  Yes, 
better.  You  will  have  all  my  high  notes,  and  you  will  have 
a  more  powerful  lower  register ;  notwithstanding  the  furore 
they  make  about  a  soprano  voice,  it  is  the  lower  tones  that 
move  one  most.  That  rloridness,  that  profusion,  is  deco- 
ration, and  decoration  in  any  kind  of  art  never  stirs  the 
depths." 

•■'  But  you  move  the  soul."     I  could  not  speak  clearly. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  know  it.  And  it's  my  life-blood  that  does 
it,  and  every  time  you  offer  such  a  libation  as  that  you  are 
just  so  much  impoverished. " 

I  did  not  understand  her,  but  I  would  not  ask  what  she 
meant.  I  had  a  feeling,  however,  that  one  might  be  willing 
to  pay  a  high  price  to  be  able  to  move  the  multitude.  How 
could  I  know  then  howT  much  of  the  glamour  of  youth  was 
over  my  eyes  ? 

I  began  that  very  day — yes,  that  very  hour — to  study. 
IMiss  Runciman  said  she  was  sorry  I  was  so  old,  that  she 
wished  she  had  found  me  years  before.  "  Say  at  sixteen  ; 
but  then  the  time  was  not  ripe  ;  I  shouldn't  have  been 
ready  to  take  you  then  ;  I  was  thinking  of  other  things. 
Did  you  ever  notice.  Billy,  that,  strive  as  we  may,  nothing 
happens  until  the  time  is  ripe  :" 

She  began  to  turn  over  the  music  sheets  in  the  corner 
of  the  room.     She  was  on  her  knees. 

"  I  confidently  expect  that  you  will  master  the  first  stud- 
ies rapidly,"  she  was  saying.  "  You  must,  because  you've 
lost  so  many  years.  Let  me  tell  you  one  of  the  great  things 
now.     Are  you  listening  ?" 

She  caught  hold  o^  my  skirt,  and  I  stood  looking  down 
at  her. 

"  Speak    clearly  —  enunciate  —  enunciate  —  enunciate  — 


IOO  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

make  as  much  of  the  words  as  if  you  were  an  actor.     Con- 
sider your  words  first.     Will  you  remember  ?" 

I  nodded  my  head,  but  I  thought  she  was  telling  me  a 
strange  thing. 

"Even  if  you  sing  in  a  tongue  your  listeners  do  not 
understand,  you  must  understand,  you  must  suck  the  mean- 
ing from  every  word,  and  the  meaning  will  flow  into  your 
tones.  Who  cares,  save  superficially,  for  warbling  like  a 
bird  ?  That  isn't  what  you  desire.  Sing  like  a  human  be- 
ing— like,  a  woman  who  hopes  and  despairs,  who  loves  and 
hates,  who  lives.  Billy,  know,  to  begin  with,  that  you  are 
to  be  a  dramatic  soprano  ;  that's  the  promise  of  your  voice  ; 
don't  do  anything  to  vitiate  that  promise.  If  you  go  and 
fall  in  love  and  marry,  I  shall  be  disgusted  with  you — dis- 
gusted. Fall  in  love  if  you  please ;  girls  are  constantly 
doing  that.  Emotional  experience  enriches  the  vocal  powers. 
But  keep  your  love  in  hand,  and  tell  your  lover  he  may 
only  adore  from  afar.  It  will  be  good  discipline  for  him, 
and  what  lovers  chiefly  need  is  discipline ;  they  don't  get 
half  enough  of  it." 

Here  Miss  Runciman  paused  to  laugh  slightly.  She  re- 
leased my  skirt  from  her  grasp. 

"  When  you  practise,  accustom  yourself  to  singing  in  all 
sorts  of  positions.  Now,  this  is  hard — to  cry  out  at  the 
top  of  your  voice,  melodiously" — still  on  her  knees,  she 
wheeled  about  and  extended  her  hands,  clasped,  forward 
and  above  her  head — "  Edgardo  !     Edgardo  !" 

The  tone  swept  into  the  warm  air  outside  and  along 
the  summer  stillness  of  the  country,  pleading,  beseech- 
ing. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  rising  to  her  feet,  "the  mere 
effort  almost  makes  you  lose  your  balance  and  fall  over 
backward.     And  you  must  do  it  spontaneously,  and  as  if 


"there's  my  nephew,  vane*'  ioi 

you  meant  it ;  otherwise  you  are  ridiculous.  Every  time  you 
are  sentimental  or  romantic  you  are  so  perilously  near  the 
ridiculous.  That  old  saying  about  its  being  but  a  step,  you 
know,  is  the  truest  thing  in  the  world. 

"  I'm  giving  you  quite  a  lecture.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
do  that  very  often.     Billy,  don't  disappoint  me,  please." 

She  glanced  at  me. 

"I  shall  do  my  best,"  I  answered,  with  enthusiasm. 

She  did  not  reply.  She  was  walking  about  the  little 
room.     She  stopped  in  front  of  me. 

"  I'm  rather  in  a  singing  mood,"  she  remarked,  "  and 
then  I  want  you  to  get  an  idea  as  to  how  the  thing  is 
done." 

She  be^an  : 

"Stay,  Corydon,  thou  swain, 
Talk  not  so  soon  of  dying  ; 
What  tho'  thy  heart  be  slain, 
What  tho'  thy  love  be  flying : 
She  threatens  thee,  but  dares  not  strike  ; 
Thy  nymph  is  light  and  shadowlike  ; 
For  if  thou  follow  her  she'll  fly  from  thee, 
But  if  thou  fly  from  her,  she'll  follow  thee." 

She  sang,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  no  one  else  ever  sang,  and 
as  no  one  ever  would  sing.  I  stammered  out  something 
to  that  effect,  and  she  laughed. 

"That's  very  sweet  of  you,"  she  answered,  "but  have 
you  ever  heard  any  one  else  ?" 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  I  had  not.  She  made  no 
reply  to  this  response  of  mine. 

"  Xow,  there's  something  I  want  to  warn  you  against," 
she  said,  suddenly. 

I  waited,  looking  at  her.  She  seemed  displeased  by  her 
thoughts. 


102  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  It's  very  annoying,  but  it's  my  nephew,  Vane.  He'll 
be  making  love  to  you,  of  course." 

I  drew  myself  up.  I  was  angry.  "  I  don't  think  we  need 
to  worry  about  that,"  I  responded,  in  a  very  high  manner. 

"  Don't  you  ?"  she  laughed,  but  there  was  a  fold  between 
her  eyes. 

"  Indeed,  no." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  Vane.  He's  a  born  lover.  Per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  blame  him.  He'd  make  eyes  at  a  wax 
doll  if  there  were  nothing  alive  near.  Why,  I  shouldn't  be 
surprised  if,  without  speaking  a  word,  he  had  somehow 
made  that  little  pig  woman — what's  her  name  ? — Cobb — 
think  he  had  a  tenderness  for  her  which  a  cruel  fate  obliged 
him  to  nip  in  the  bud.  Oh,  Vane  Hildreth  must  make 
love  to  some  one.  If  he  were  only  a  little  younger,  I  would 
cut  a  switch  from  one  of  these  birches  and  use  it  across  his 
shoulders.  He  will  try  to  make  love  to  you,  as  sure  as 
you  are  standing  before  me.  Now,  will  you  please  tell 
me  what  course  you  are  going  to  take  ?  Will  you  snub 
him  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  quizzically,  but  still  earnestly.  I  was 
indignant  to  the  very  tips  of  my  fingers. 

"  I  think  I  can  snub  him,"  I  answered.  I  was  wishing  I 
might  see  that  switch  applied  to  the  young  man's  shoulders, 
and  I  was  aware  that  this  was  a  grossly  unladylike  wish. 

"  But  you  may  overdo  the  thing,  in  which  case  he  will 
suspect.  He  is  a  very  quick-witted  boy.  It  is  really  phe- 
nomenal how  the  women  like  him." 

"  Do  they  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  see,  he  is  what  you'd  call  lovable." 

"  Is  he  ?" 

"  Certainly.     He  sang  to  you  the  other  night,  didn't  he  ?" 

Miss  Runciman's  eyes  suddenly  made  a  dive  into  mine. 


"there's  my  nephew,  vane"  103 

I  stiffened  myself  and  stared  back  at  her.     I  wished  I  was 
brazen  as  brass. 

"  It  was  last  night,"  I  said,  boldly. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  him  from  a  distance.  He's  learning 
a  new  encore.  He  must  have  somebody  to  try  it  on.  It's 
quite  a  lovesick  little  thing.     Did  you  like  it,  Billy  ?" 

"  He  has  a  sweet  voice,"  I  answered. 

"  Yes,  like  the  scent  of  a  jasmine  flower.  I  do  hope  you 
didn't  let  him  stare  at  you.  He  has  great  faith  in  the 
power  of  his  eyes." 

I  turned  away.  I  thought  we  had  had  quite  enough  talk 
about  Vane  Hildreth.  I  didn't  dare  to  say  much,  but  I  did 
remark  that  if  I  had  been  on  the  verge  of  falling  in  love  with 
Mr.  Hildreth,  I  was  now  sufficiently  forewarned.  I  ought  to 
be  perfectly  safe.     Miss  Runciman  smiled. 

"  That's  right.  Now  let  us  get  up  some  kind  of  a  lunch. 
I  find  I'm  hungry  at  the  oddest  times.  By-the-way,  I'm 
going  to  give  you  a  lesson  every  forenoon,  and  you  must 
practise  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  You'll  have  to  go  into 
the  great  out-of-doors  to  do  it.  I'm  sure  that,  at  this  stage, 
your  voice  will  strengthen  out-of-doors  ;  usually  we  ought  to 
fence  in  our  tones,  you  know.  Go  as  far  afield  as  you 
please,  only  peg  away — you're  to  make  up  for  lost  time." 

We  had  a  lunch  of  sardines  and  biscuit,  and  some  wine, 
which  I  did  not  drink.  I  had  never  seen  a  woman  with 
a  wineglass  in  her  hand  before,  and  the  sight  of  it  and 
the  smell  of  it  made  me  shrink  as  from  a  tangible  evil. 
There  seemed  to  be  something  low-lived  in  the  drinking 
of  wine.  I  had  heard  that  some  women  did  such  a  thing, 
but  in  my  mind  the  act  smirched  them.  Do  not  forget  that 
there  are  many  hamlets  in  New  England  where  the  people 
still  feel  as  I  felt  then. 

Miss  Runciman  filled  a  beautiful  little  glass  and  pushed  it 


104  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

towards  me  across  the  table.  The  odor  filled  the  room.  I 
was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  repulsion  such  as  I  had  not 
thought  I  could  know  towards  this  woman. 

"  It  is  only  Tokay,"  she  said.  I  shook  my  head.  I  had 
/  signed  the  pledge  when  I  had  belonged  to  our  minister's 
Bible  class.  I  had  hardly  thought  of  the  pledge  from  that 
day  to  this.  It  had  meant  very  little  to  me  at  the  time,  and 
this  was  the  first  opportunity  I  had  had  to  break  my  promise. 
I  was  not  in  the  least  tempted.  That  delicate  glass  with 
its  fragrant  contents  to  me  was  literally  of  the  devil.  I 
think  only  the  New  England  country  girl  can  understand 
me,  but  she  will  understand.  Vague  pictures  of  bad  men 
and  bad  women  rose  up  before  me.  I  did  not  know  that 
my  hostess  was  observing  my  face  until  she  suddenly  said  : 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  disappointed  in  me."  I  made 
no  reply.     "  Is  it  the  wine  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  nice  to  drink.  It  seems  wicked,  and — 
and—" 

"  What  ?" 

"  Low." 

I  flung  out  the  words  desperately.  Miss  Runciman  con- 
templated me  in  silence.  Then  she  set  down  her  glass  of 
wine,  which  she  had.not  tasted;  but  she  did  not  seem  aware 
that  she  had  not  tasted.  She  drew  a  long  breath.  She  took 
up  a  lemon  and  put  a  few  drops  of  its  juice  on  the  sardine 
which  lay  on  her  plate.  Then  she  pushed  her  plate  from 
her. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "  I  know,  because  I 
used  to  feel  just  like  that.  But  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
it;  I'm  glad  I  had  forgotten.  I  don't  want  to  remem- 
ber. Besides,  you  are  wrong.  This  glass  of  Tokay  would 
do  no  harm.  You'll  soon  drink  a  little  wine  now  and 
then  with  no  more  thought  than  if  it  were  tea.     We  don't 


"there's  my  nephew,  vane"  105 

keep  our  youthful  notions.     We  should  be  idiots  if  we  did. 
Idiots !" 

To  my  inexpressible  surprise,  Miss  Runciman  laid  her 
arms  down  on  the  table  and  her  head  upon  them,  and  began 
to  sob. 


VII 

BROKEN    BONES 

I  sat  motionless.  If  Miss  Runciman  had  suddenly  be- 
come a  maniac  I  could  not  have  been  more  amazed.  I 
longed  to  go  to  her  and  put  my  arms  about  her,  but  I  did 
not  dare  to  move.  Suddenly  upon  the  stillness  of  the  place 
there  came  the  sound  of  a  voice  singing  hastily,  the  sound 
coming  nearer  and  nearer.  I  recognized  the  voice,  as  did 
Miss  Runciman.  She  raised  her  head,  but  she  put  one 
hand  over  her  eyes.  I  saw  the  tremor  of  her  mouth  as  she 
smiled. 

"  She  flats  on  F,"  she  said ;  "  and  how  I  have  drilled 
her  !"  The  speaker  took  her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  raised 
her  head. 

The  next  moment  Bathsheba  Hildreth  sprang  up  the 
outer  steps  that  led  into  the  room.  She  had  on  her  blouse 
and  her  short  skirt  and  her  knickerbockers.  She  wore  a 
polo  cap  on  the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  a  stick  in  her 
hand.  She  landed  close  to  her  aunt's  chair,  as  if  she  had 
just  vaulted  over  something  and  the  jump  had  brought  her 
to  that  spot.  She  gave  a  quick  glance  at  Miss  Runciman 
and  then  asked  :  "  What's  the  row  ?" 

She  leaned  forward  and  took  the  flask  of  wine.  She 
sniffed  at  it  'and  exclaimed  :  "  That  baby  stuff  !  I  want  a 
nip  of  whiskey.     Where  is  the  whiskey-bottle  ?" 

She  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  hurried  into  the  next 


BROKEN    BONES  107 

room.  She  came  back  with  another  bottle  and  a  bit  of  a 
folding  silver  drinking-cup.  She  put  some  whiskey  in  this 
cup  and  tossed  down  the  liquid. 

"  Billy,  you  are  shocked/'  she  said,  looking  at  me.  Then 
she  turned  to  the  elder  woman  and  continued  :  "  Xow  I'll 
tell  you  what's  happened.  But  then  it  might  better  happen 
now  than  later.  He'll  manage  to  be  out  in  time  for  our 
first  night,  I  reckon." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?"  sharply  from  Miss  Run- 
ciman. 

"Vane,  of  course.     I  don't  know  how  manv  bones  he's 

J 

broken."  Bashy  took  a  sardine  in  her  fingers  and  pulled 
a  morsel  from  it.  "I've  run  until  I'm  one  mass  of  palpi- 
tating flesh.  These  sardines  are  not  as  good  as  the  last 
ones.  Billy,  will  you  pour  me  out  a  few  spoonfuls  of  that 
Tokay  ?" 

I  gave  her  the  flask.  For  some  reason  I  did  not  wish  to 
pour  the  wine. 

"  Is  Vane  hurt  ?"  still  more  sharply  from  Miss  Runciman. 

"  If  it  hurts  to  break  a  leg  and  a  few  ribs  and  a  clavicle 
or  two,  he's  hurt." 

The  girl's  aunt  crossed  the  short  space  between  them  and 
took  hold  of  her  niece's  arm  as  one  takes  the  arm  of  a  re- 
fractory child.  She  shook  Bashy,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  her 
do  it. 

"Now  tell  me  what  you  mean  !"  she  commanded. 

"Just  what  I  say.  It  was  over  on  that  long  road  that 
leads  to  —  well,  to  Gehenna,  I  fancy.  It's  five  miles  away 
if  it's  a  rod.  It  follows  the  river,  you  know,  and  there's 
another  gorge  there.  You  remember  we  thought  of  out- 
spanning  in  that  place  instead  of  here.  Vane  never  has 
common-sense  about  steep  places.  He  wanted  to  go  down 
into  that  ravine  after  we  had  looked  into  it.     He  said  there 


108  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

was  a  flower  growing  there  that  made  him  think  of  our  new 
soprano" — here  the  girl  gave  me  a  glance.  "And  he  said 
that  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  go  down  in  ravines  after 
flowers.  So  he  did  it,  and  he  lost  his  balance.  He  went 
crashing  on  until  I  thought  I  should  die  watching  him. 
Please  remember,  ladies,  that  I've  had  my  fright,  and  you've 
just  got  yours.  So  I'm  not  so  hard-hearted  as  you  appear 
to  think.  I  scrambled  after  him,  though  I  knew  I  couldn't 
lug  him  out.  He  lay  still  there,  white  and  groaning.  He  said 
he  hadn't  a  whole  bone  in  his  body.  I  scrambled  back  up 
the  bank  and  stood  in  the  road  a  minute  thinking.  It  was 
four  or  five  miles  to  anywhere.  People  didn't  come  along 
this  road  very  often.  I  decided  to  start  in  the  direction 
that  would  lead  me  to  Four  Corners.  Perhaps  I  should 
meet  some  one  there,  and  not  have  to  go  the  whole  dis- 
tance. And  I  did  meet  some  one  in  a  farm -cart  —  that 
fellow  who  scorns  us,  and  who  won't  sell  us  chickens  nor 
pigs.     You  know  him,  Billy.     What's  his  name  ?" 

"  Bidwell  Blake,"  I  explained,  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  Mr.  Bidwell  Blake  couldn't  refuse  to  go  to  the 
ravine  at  my  request.  I  got  into  his  cart  and  he  whipped 
his  horse.  But,  oh,  it  was  an  awful  job  to  get  Arane  up  ! 
Bidwell  Blake  knew  how  to  do  it,  though.  He  told  Vane 
he  should  half  kill  him,  but  he'd  got  to  be  half  killed,  or 
stay  where  he  was.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  any  kind  of  fac- 
ulty for  lifting,  and  I  said  I  guessed  I  had  ;  and  he  told  me 
now  was  the  time  to  raise  up  my  muscle  and  see  what  I 
could  do.  So  I  took  hold  of  Vane's  feet  and  Bidwell  Blake 
took  his  shoulders,  and  we  went  along  till  we  came  to  a 
better  place  to  climb  up,  Vane  swearing  like  Beelzebub,  and 
Bidwell  Blake  not  speaking  a  word.  When  we  did  come 
to  the  place  Bidwell  Blake  said  he'd  got  to  take  Vane  in 
his  arms,  and  he  was  sorry  he'd  been  swearing  so,  for  now 


BROKEN    BONES 


IO9 


he'd  need  more  swearing  by  a  great  sight  than  he  had  be- 
fore. Then  Vane  shut  his  lips  as  he  does  when  he's  stuffy, 
and  Bidwell  Blake  took  him  and  went  up  the  steep  side. 
And  when  he  was  up  and  put  Vane  on  the  ground,  Vane 
was  limp  and  white.  He  had  gone  into  a  dead  faint.  But 
we  brought  him  to  life  again  and  got  him  into  the  wagon, 
and  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and  Bidwell  Blake  walked  his 
horse,  and  when  we  got  near  here  I  said  this  cart  was  no 
place  for  a  man  to  be  who  had  a  job  of  knitting  bones  on 
hand,  besides  injury  to  his  insides.  And  where  do  you 
think  Bidwell  Blake  has  taken  him  ?"  Bashy  drank  some 
more  Tokay.  "Why,  to  the  little  pig  woman's,  close  by. 
Yes,  he's  on  Rachel  Cobb's  best  bed,  and  Bidwell  Blake  has 
taken  his  horse  from  his  wagon,  got  on  the  horse's  back 
and  galloped  after  a  doctor,  and  I've  come  over  here  to 
tell  my  tale." 

Here  the  speaker  poured  more  Tokay  into  her  cup  and 
drank  it.  Miss  Runciman  stood  as  if  she  had  hardly 
taken  in  the  story  to  which  she  had  listened. 

"  But  what  did  Miss  Cobb  say  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  hasn't  said  anything,"  was  the  reply,  sipping  at 
the  wine. 

"That's  odd;  she  generally  says  things,"  I  responded. 

"Well,  you  see,  she  hasn't  had  a  chance  to  say  anything 
yet.     She  doesn't  know  it." 

"Not  know  it?" 

"Oh  no;  she  wasn't  at  home.  Visiting  somewhere,  I 
s\jose.  But  I'd  seen  her  put  her  key  on  the  window-ledge 
behind  the  lilac.  So  I  looked  for  it,  and  there  it  was. 
Bidwell  Blake  said  he  wouldn't  be  responsible ;  he  said  it 
was  burglary  ;  but  I  didn't  care  what  it  was.  Vane  had  got 
to  go  somewhere,  and  this  was  the  place.  So  I  unlocked 
the  door  and  led  the  way  into  the  bedroom  that  leads  out 


IIO  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

of  the  sitting-room.  The  sun  was  beating  down,  and  it  was 
like  an  oven.  You  never  saw  a  bed  stand  up  so  high  as 
that  one  did,  and  there  was  a  quilt  on  it  made  of  large 
yellow  birds,  with  red  wings,  cut  out  and  sewed  on.  I 
couldn't  help  seeing  and  noticing  the  birds.  I  should  have 
noticed  them  if  Vane  and  I  had  both  been  dying.  I  flung 
back  this  cover,  and  Bidwell  Blake  put  Vane  down  on  the 
bed.  He  had  come  to  by  this  time,  you  know.  He  told  me  to 
take  that  cursed  thing  with  the  birds  on  it  out  of  his  sight ; 
he  told  me  he'd  kill  me  if  I  didn't  keep  it  out  of  his  sight ; 
he  said  it  was  a  damned  discord.  I  threw  it  on  the  ground 
back  of  the  house.  The  hens  there  are  afraid  of  it,  and 
they  are  protecting  the  cockerel  from  it." 

Miss  Runciman  had  gone  into  the  other  room  of  the 
wagon.  She  now  came  back  with  a  rubber  pillow  and  a 
few  things  for  her  nephew's  comfort.  She  was  very  pale, 
and  she  did  not  notice  us  as  she  passed  on  by  us  and  left 
the  carriage.  I  saw  her  from  the  window  hurrying  away  in 
the  direction  of  Miss  Cobb's  cottage. 

My  companion  sat  down  quickly.  "  I'd  go  with  her,"  she 
said,  "  but  the  truth  is  I'm  played  out.  You  wouldn't  think 
it  perhaps,  but  I  am."  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  I 
noticed  now  that  she  looked  exhausted.  "  I  wouldn't  sit 
here  if  there  were  one  thing  I  could  do,"  she  went  on. 
"  But  just  now  there  isn't,  and  Aunt  Nora  '11  stay  with  him. 
The  doctor  can't  be  here  under  an  hour  and  a  half  at  the 
shortest.  I've  got  to  rest  while  I  can.  We  shall  have  a  pull 
with  Vane  now,  I  tell  you.  We  shall  need  all  the  strength 
we  can  get.     Oh,  I  am  sorry !" 

.  Here  the  girl's  voice  trembled.  I  was  afraid  she  was 
going  to  cry,  and  I  was  somehow  out  of  sympathy  with  her, 
though  I  was  deeply  sorry  for  her.  She  did  not  cry,  how- 
ever.     She  sat  quite  still  for  some  moments,   and  all  the 


BROKEN    BONES  III 

time  I  was  trying  to  think  what  to  say  to  her.  I  felt  as  if 
I  seemed  quite  hard-hearted. 

Suddenly  she  exclaimed,  "I  wish  you'd  give  me  some  more 
wine.  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  mouse  after  all  this."  I  rose 
and  carried  the  bottle  and  a  glass  to  her.  "  Pour  it  out 
for  me,  please."  I  hesitated.  I  knew  as  well  as  any  one 
how  inconsistent  my  hesitation  was. 

''What's  the  matter?"  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  hate  to  pour  wine,"  I  answered,  grow- 
ing red. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  curious  one  !"  She  seized  the  flask  and 
glass. 

After  she  had  drunk  she  said : 

"  There's  one  thing  I  wish  you'd  do." 

"  What  is  it  ?     I  want  to  help  you." 

"  See  that  Miss  Cobb,  and  tell  her  what's  been  done  with 
her  house." 

"  But  I  don't  know  where  she  is." 

"Watch  out  for  her.  You  ought  to  know  her  habits.  I 
haven't  the  patience.  I  should  give  her  something  tough,  I 
know  I  should." 

Bashy  rose  and  left  me ;  I  sat  there  by  myself  a  few  mo- 
ments. I  was  trying  to  recall  Rachel  Cobb's  routine  of 
visits.  As  nearly  as  I  could  remember  she  ought  to  have 
"•one  over  to  the  "  Great  Medders  "  about  this  time.  The 
Great  Medders  settlement  was  three  miles  away.  She 
would  get  a  "lift"  over  there  with  the  butcher,  and  a  lift 
home  with  the  baker.  But  she  wouldn't  be  home  until 
afternoon ;  she  would  come  early  enough  to  feed  her  hens 
before  they  went  to  roost.  I  wished  to  catch  her  at  some 
distance  from  her  home  ;  I  wanted  to  have  time  to  explain 
matters  and  to  let  the  truth  sink  into  her  mind.  But  there 
were  several  hours  to  pass  through  before  I  could  expect 


112  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

her.  Miss  Rimciman  and  Bashy  would  be  with  Vane  Hil- 
dreth.     I  should  be  by  myself. 

Presently  I  left  the  carriage.  I  purposely  wandered  off 
towards  the  road  that  led  to  the  village.  Here  this  road 
was  very  solitary.  I  kept  in  the  high  pastures,  but  within 
sight  of  the  highway.  I  began  to  try  my  voice ;  I  ran  up 
and  down  the  scale  over  and  over  again,  noting  critically 
the  volume  of  sound  and  its  quality.  I  was  not  afraid  that 
any  one  would  hear  me,  so  I  let  lungs  and  throat  have  full 
play.  As  soon  as  possible  I  knew  that  Miss  Runciman 
would  give  me  a  few  hints  as  to  these  exercises. 

I  was  standing  up  to  my  full  height,  head  back,  and 
"  holding  on "  to  high  C,  when  a  rustle  in  the  sumacs 
close  to  me  made  me  drop  my  note  suddenly.  But  it 
was  only  a  brindled  dog  that  came  out  of  the  bushes 
towards  me.  He  came  slowly  and  inquiringly,  but  when 
he  had  reached  my  side  he  licked  my  hands  eagerly,  and 
with  a  pathetic  sort  of  questioning.  He  sat  down  on  his 
haunches  and  looked  at  me.  I  put  my  hand  on  his  head. 
Of  course,  I  recognized  the  animal  as  Mr.  Hildreth's  dog, 
whom  he  called  "  Lotus."  His  owner  had  explained  that 
he  had  given  the  dog  this  name  on  account  of  its  striking 
inappropriateness. 

"  Why  are  you  not  with  your  master  ?"  I  inquired. 

Lotus  wagged  his  tail  furiously  and  whined.  He  was 
explaining,  but  I  could  not  understand.  Having  risen  to 
go  through  with  this  explanation,  he  sat  down  again  with 
the  air  of  one  who  begs  not  to  be  driven  away.  At  this 
stage  of  our  interview  I  heard  a  shout  of  "  Hullo  !"  down 
in  the  road.  I  looked  and  saw  a  man  on  horseback  gallop- 
ing. He  was  swinging  his  hat  towards  me.  Immediately 
he  dismounted,  tied  his  horse  to  a  birch-tree,  and  came  up 
the  hill.     I  had  directly  recognized  Bidwell  Blake. 


. BROKEN    BONES  113 

"  I  s'pose  you've  heard  ?"  he  said,  as  he  came  near.  I 
nodded.  "  Pretty  kettle  of  fish  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I've  seen 
the  doctor.  He's  on  behind  with  splints  'n'  bottles  'n'  band- 
ages, 'n'  he'll  need  urn  all.  I  can't  stop  but  a  minute.  He 
said  he  might  want  me  to  help— he  couldn't  tell ;  V  it 
wouldn't  do  to  count  on  the  feller's  womenkind.  Didn't 
he  swear,  though  !  Yes,  he  did.  But  I  vow  I  couldn't 
blame  him.     Whose  dorg's  that?" 

"  Mr.  Hildreth's.  He's  just  come  to  me."  Bidwell 
glanced  at  me  frowningly.  "  Why  don't  the  dorg  stay  where 
he  b'longs  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  thought  dorgs  was  the  only 
faithful  things  in  the  universe.  Why  ain't  he  with  his 
master  ?" 

I  said  I  didn't  know.  Bidwell  continued  to  frown  as  he 
gazed  at  me.  Then  he  remarked  that  if  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  kicking;  doss  he  should  kick  this  one. 

"  The  cheek  of  the  critter  to  come  to  you  in  that  way," 
he  exclaimed ;  "  jest  's  if  he  had  a  right  to  !  Why  don't 
you  drive  him  off?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  I  shall  not  drive  him  off." 

Bidwell  whistled,  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was  still 
a  scowling  expression.  "  Wall,  I  must  be  goin'.  The  doc- 
tor '11  be  along,  V  I  must  be  on  hand."  The  young  man 
turned  and  walked  a  few  paces ;  then  he  came  back.  He 
gazed  at  me  a  moment  before  he  spoke.  "  I  s'pose  you're 
goin'  with  them  folks,  Billy  ?"  he  said.  Yes,  I  was  going 
with  them.  Bidwell  gazed  at  me  intently.  Something  in 
his  gaze  made  me  uncomfortable  and  indignant.  I  thought 
he  intended  to  speak  again,  but  he  did  not.  He  suddenly 
swung  about  and  hurried  down  the  slope.  I  watched  him ; 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  without  looking  in 
my  direction  again.  Lotus  was  sitting  at  my  feet.  He 
glanced  up  at  me  deprecatingly,  drooping  his  clipped  ears. 


H4 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


It  was  a  strange  day.  I  remained  out  in  the  pastures  all 
the  time,  wandering  here  and  there,  singing,  breathing  great 
draughts  of  the  delicious  air.  If  mother  had  been  there  I 
should  have  gone  home  for  a  while.  About  noon  I  went 
down  to  the  carriage.  I  found  no  one.  I  discovered  some 
bread  and  cold  meat,  and  Lotus  and  I  had  a  lunch.  The 
horses  belonging  to  the  wagon  were  kept  in  the  nearest  sta- 
ble, which  was  half  a  mile  away.  I  had  a  sudden  wish  to 
go  to  that  stable  and  see  the  gray  colt ;  but  I  controlled 
that  wish.     I  must  watch  for  Rachel  Cobb. 

When  I  went  out  again  I  went  to  Miss  Cobb's  house, 
Lotus  going  with  me.  The  doctor's  sorrel  mare  and  gig 
were  still  at  the  fence.  An  air  of  strange  stillness  was  about 
the  place.  It  was  always  still,  but  this  was  something  dif- 
ferent. Bathsheba  was  sitting  at  the  open  door,  on  the 
threshold.  She  had  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  hands 
supporting  her  face.  On  the  ground  not  far  away  I  saw  in 
a  heap  the  bedquilt  with  the  yellow,  red-winged  birds  on 
it.  I  gathered  up  this  quilt,  shook  it,  and  with  it  in  my 
arms  I  advanced  to  Bashy. 

"  How  is  he  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Bad,"  without  looking  up.  I  wanted  to  ask  if  he  would 
die,  but  I  could  not.  I  stood  there  hesitatingly.  Then  the 
girl  said  : 

"Doctor  says  there's  a  chance  for  him  ;  but  perhaps  the 
doctor  doesn't  know  anything.     They  mostly  don't." 

I  went  softly  in  and  put  the  bedquilt  on  a  chair.  The 
dog  came  treading  behind  me.  He  sniffed  at  the  open 
door  of  the  bedroom.  There  was  the  sickening  odor  of 
anaesthetics  in  the  air.  I  went  out  as  softly  and  quickly. 
I  had  had  a  glimpse  of  the  figures  of  Miss  Runciman  and 
the  doctor.  The  whole  house  seemed  entirely  changed,  and 
yet  it  looked  the  same.     I  saw  Rachel  Cobb's  plate  and 


BROKEN    BONES  115 

cup  and  saucer  on  the  checked  table  -  cloth  of  the  table 
that  set  up  against  the  wall. 

I  did  not  speak  again  to  Bashy  as  I  hurried  out.  I  was 
several  rods  away  when  I  heard  a  low  whistle  from  the  di- 
rection of  the  house.  I  looked  back ;  there  was  Lotus  fol- 
lowing me  at  a  gentle  trot.  He  also  looked  back  in  re- 
sponse to  Bashy's  whistle,  but  he  did  not  obey.  He  glanced 
at  me  pleading!}7.  I  was  surprised.  I  had  not  thought  of 
his  following  me  now ;  and  I  was  touched  at  the  same  time 
that  I  decided  that  he  must  be  a  fickle  dog.  And  were 
dogs  fickle?  I  didn't  know  much  about  them.  I  tried  to 
motion  Lotus  away.  He  crouched  down,  slowly  and  inter- 
rogatively moving  the  tip  of  his  tail. 

Then  I  went  on  again.  I  heard  Bashy  whistle  once  more. 
I  plunged  in  among  the  birches  and  huckleberry-bushes  in 
the  direction  of  "  Great  Medders."  When  I  came  to  an 
opening  I  glanced  back.  There  was  Lotus,  stepping  softly 
along.  He  stopped  the  instant  I  looked  at  him.  I  smiled 
and  held  out  my  hand.  He  dashed  forward,  stump  of  a  tail 
up,  ears  cocked.  How  eagerly  he  licked  my  fingers  !  How 
joyfully  he  whined !  I  knelt  down  and  took  his  head  be- 
tween my  hands.  I  gazed  intently  at  this  new  companion 
of  mine.  He  had  bright,  light  hazel  eyes,  a  snub  nose, 
protruding  lower  jaw,  a  scar  on  the  right  side  of  his  grizzled 
face. 

"  You  don't  look  inconstant,"  I  said,  "  but  you  must  be 
so.*'  I  rose.  "Well,  come  on;"  and  he  trotted  cheerfully 
at  my  heels  all  the  long  afternoon,  or  he  sat  down  gravely 
by  me  when  I  sat  down. 

It  was  altogether,  as  I  said,  a  strange  day  to  me,  and  it 
seemed  a  week  long  before  it  was  time  to  expect  the  Farwell 
baker  to  be  on  his  way  from  Great  Medders.  But  I  was 
sitting  on  a  big  rock  under  a  pine-tree  on  the  Great  Med- 


u6  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

ders  road  at  so  early  an  hour  that  I  knew  that  the  baker 
would  not  escape  me.  If  Rachel  Cobb  should  not  be  with 
him,  I  should  be  greatly  surprised. 

At  last  I  heard  the  tinkle  of  bells.  There  he  was,  and 
there  was  a  woman  on  the  seat  beside  him.  Very  soon  I 
saw  the  leather  bag  in  her  lap.  That  bag  held  her  "body." 
I  walked  out  to  the  roadside.  Presently  the  wagon  was 
sufficiently  near  for  me  to  see  that  Rachel's  jaws  were 
clicking  up  and  down.  The  baker  wore  a  drowsy  aspect. 
Poor  man  !  He  had  heard  that  clicking  for  nearly  an  hour. 
He  roused.    He  evidently  expected  a  demand  for  cookies. 

Rachel  leaned  forward  and  stared  at  Lotus.  "  Why !"  she 
exclaimed,  "that's  them  singers'  dorg,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  I  wish  you'd  get  out,  Miss  Cobb,  and 
walk  home  with  me  from  here." 

"  Gracious !"  was  the  response.  "  Of  course  I  will. 
What's  happened?     Have  the  hens  be'n  stole  ?" 

When  I  assured  her  of  the  safety  of  the  fowls  she  said 
there'd  be'n  a  "  terrible  time  to  Great  Medders  with  hen 
thieves."  While  she  spoke  she  was  climbing  down  from 
her  seat,  and  the  baker,  looking  much  relieved,  was  saying, 
"Whoa!  Sh  !  Stand  still,  I  tell  ye  !"  to  his  horse,  though 
the  steed  was  drooping  forward  with  an  air  of  not  being 
able  to  move  again. 

Rachel  landed  safely  on  the  ground,  and  the  baker  then 
handed  to  her  a  paper  bag  which  its  owner  explained  con- 
tained "  dried  high-tops  "  from  the  Mosely  farm.  These 
high-tops  were  early  sweet  apples,  and  Rachel  would  stew 
them  in  sugar  and  water,  and  eventually  eat  them  in  milk 
in  conjunction  with  bread.  I  volunteered  to  carry  the  ap- 
ples, and  we  started  forward  "  across "  towards  my  com- 
panion's home. 

"You  said  'twasn't  the  hens,"  she  remarked,  as  soon  as 


BROKEN    BOXES  117 

we  were  well  on  the  way,  and  she  had  cried  "scat!''  two 
or  three  times  to  the  dog,  as  if  he  were  a  cat.  He  had 
manifested  a  wish  to  smell  of  the  leather  bag,  and  she  was 
equally  determined  that  he  should  not  smell  of  it. 

"Nor  fire?"'  she  asked,  before  I  could  speak.  "You've 
got  kind  of  a  look  's  if  'twas  fire." 

"  Xo— no,''  I  answered.  I  felt  very  much  embarrassed. 
It  was  an  indefensible  thing  that  had  been  done.  I  plunged 
at  once  into  my  story. 

She  stopped  in  her  walk  to  listen.  I  held  the  bag  of 
apples  well  up  in  front  of  me  and  spoke  as  fast  as  I  could. 
Twice  she  exclaimed  :  "The  old  cat!''  and  when  I  was 
through  she  said,  "  Goodness  gracious  me  !     I  do  declare  !'' 

Then  she  sat  down  on  a  convenient  stone,  and  announced 
that  she  could  not  noways  take  it  in,  and  she  didn't  know 
as  she  should  ever  be  able  to  take  it  in,  and  she  hadn't,  so 
to  speak,  got  no  home  to  go  to,  she  that  set  so  much  store 
by  a  home,  too. 

She  talked  thus  for  some  time,  and  I  did  not  interrupt. 
Indeed,  I  had  nothing  to  say.  I  thought  Bathsheba  Hil- 
dreth  had  done  an  unwarrantable  thing.  Her  brother 
should  have  taken  his  chances  in  the  big  wagon.  I  would 
not,  in  my  own  mind,  admit  of  the  possibility  of  Bashy's 
being  right  in  what  she  had  just  effected.  At  last  I  was 
aware  that   my  companion  was   asking  a  question. 

';  Can't  you  speak  ?"  she  inquired,  fretfully.  "  I've  been 
askin'  you  over  'n'  over  what  in  the  world  I  was  goin'  to  do." 

"  You  might  visit,"  I  suggested,  timidly. 

"Visit!"  she  repeated.  "What  do  you  mean  by  saying 
anything  like  that?  I  know,"  in  a  milder  tone,  "I  s'pose 
I  might  go  visitin'  some  day  times,  but  I've  got  to  be  here 
nights  'n'  mornin's,  for  there's  my  hens,  'n'  my  cat  must  be 
seen  to.     You  say  that  feller's  all  smashed  to  a  jell  ?" 


IN    THE    FIRST    PER 

There  -  m  her  tones  ;  -:"ac- 

,  I  supp  :  her  house  by  the 

:>ccupa 

••  No,"  I  answerei  "  I  didn 

i         .  -  makes-much  dif  Tunc  ■ 

rcse    and    took  up   her 
k  I  :  remarked. 

I  offered  to  the  dried  app 

■:ed  on  dong 

I  to  her 

being  turned  av  im  me.  Ion 

then. 

WB  >  the  door  ?od 

open,  but  Basfay  "ded  the  apples  to 

bb.  but  si:  L  got  to  come  in  'n'  introduce 

v  from  d 

.  but  I  cou. 

o   the  .  hot 

at  of  e:. 
msed  in 
Perhaps  Miss  R  .  i  heard  tfai 

tnsed 
laid    her  hand   on  her  arm  and 

.  Rachel, 
iman  L 
......  tried  to 

:d  out  of  h  though  the 

- 
"I  got  *  she  bega 

.    - 
Rur. 

We  all  stood  just  without  the  door  now,  and  Miss  Cobb 


; 

[  turned  and 

I 

i    i 

•■II 

• 

i 
I  by  he 

I    L 

!  I  | 

in, 

■ 
little  here  tf. 

he  eno  >b  feath 

hed    to    Clin? 

ent  in  her  mir. 
Mr.   Hildreth,   I  \  \ookc  ild  lik' 

:i  the  feather 
thing  for  a  time.      I  he  tun.  eyes 

e  and  tried  to 
••  I    -.  .  i    I 


I2o  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  There  were  some  flowers  there,"  he  went  on.  "  They 
made  me  think  of  you — ridiculous — when  you're  not  like  a 
flower.  I  think" — a  hesitation  and  a  smile  that  seemed 
mocking — "  I  think  they  must  be  dramatic  soprano  flowers; 
anyway,  I  did  not  get  them — that's  the  main  point." 

"  Vane,  aren't  you  talking  too  much  ?"  asked  Miss  Run- 
ciman. 

"  No,"  crossly.  "  Perhaps  by  to-morrow  I  can't  talk  at 
all.     Where's  Lotus  ?" 

"  He's  been  with  me,"  I  said. 

"  Will  you  allow  him  to  stop  with  you  ?  Bashy  told 
me—" 

"  I'll  let  him  stay,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Now  you  may  go,"  was  the  response  from  the  bed.  I 
was  walking  out  of  the  room  when  the  irritable  voice  ex- 
claimed :  "  Are  you  going  like  that  ?" 

"  In  what  other  way  can  I  go  ?"  I  stopped  in  the  door- 
way as  I  asked  this. 

"  Why,  it's  barbarous  not  to  shake  hands,  I  call  it!" 

I  went  to  the  bed  and  held  out  my  hand.  His  own  hand, 
as  it  clasped  about  mine,  was  hot  and  pitiable,  somehow. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  sing  the  little  song  for  the 
encore  again,"  he  said  ;  and  then,  not  waiting  for  any  re- 
ply :  "  Well,  good-bye  !  If  I'm  not  dead,  I  wish  you'd  let 
me  hear  you  practise  when  you  know  how  to  do  it.  Well, 
good-bye,  I  say !" 

I  was  now  permitted  to  go,  after  I  had  said  good-bye.  I 
was  so  sorry  for  him  that  my  voice  was  not  perfectly  steady. 
The  dog  lingered  a  moment  by  the  bedside,  and  licked 
his  master's  hand.     Then  he  followed  me. 

"What  on  earth  's  he  be'n  sayin'  of?"  eagerly  inquired 
Rachel,  who  had  remained  in  the  next  room,  but  who  ap- 


BROKEN     BONES  121 

parently  had  not  been  successful  in  her  attempt  at  listen- 
ing.    She  looked  at  me  in  a  kind  of  gloating  way. 

'•  Nothing,"  I  answered,  shortly. 

"  Oh,  land  !  Wilhelminy,  I  hope  you  ain't  goin'  to  be  in- 
terested in  him  !"  she  exclaimed. 

To  this  I  made  no  answer.  What  could  I  say  to  such  a 
remark  as  that?  To  assert  or  deny  would  be  equally  use- 
less.    I  was  silent. 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "  you  needn't  tell  if  you  'ain't 
a  mind  to.  But  if  you  go  'n'  set  your  mind  on  that  singin' 
feller  you'll  be  master  sorry;  V  what  do  you  s'pose  your 
mother  'd  say  ?'' 

"Wait  till  I  do  set  my  mind  on  him,"  I  snapped.  "I 
went  in  there  because  Miss  Runciman  asked  me." 

I  walked  out  of  the  house.  I  hurried  down  the  river 
path.  I  did  not  pause  until  I  had  entered  the  big  carriage. 
I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  surprised  and  annoyed  to 
rind  Bashy  there.  She  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  long  chairs, 
with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  head.  Her  face  was  red 
and  swollen. 

"Very  likely  he'll  be  a  cripple,"  she  said,  as  I  entered. 

"  Did  the  doctor  say  so  ?"* 

"  No ;  but  you  can't  very  well  break  every  bone  in  your 
body  without  being  some  kind  of  a  cripple.  And  he's  so 
interested  in  his  singing.  And  he  doesn't  flat,  as  I  do. 
We  shall  have  to  get  a  new  tenor,  and  that's  an  awful 
nuisance.  Aunt  Nora  '11  hate  that."  She  looked  at  the 
brindled  do°;  who  had  followed  me.  "  That's  confounded 
odd  about  Lotus,"  she  said. 


VIII 
BEFORE    WITNESSES 

Yes,  it  was  certainly  a  very  strange  summer,  and  it 
passed  as  if  it  were  but  a  day ;  and,  though  it  seemed  as 
if  I  were  doing  one  thing  all  the  time,  it  was  not  monot- 
onous. It  was  strange,  also,  for  me  to  be  living  so  near  my 
home  and  yet  not  there.  In  my  heart  I  felt  far  off.  But 
I  used  to  go  there  once  or  twice  a  week — Lotus  and  I. 
Mother  was  still  in  Ryle.  She  wrote  to  me  at  intervals, 
but  she  was  not  one  who  was  at  home  with  her  pen,  so  I 
felt  curiously  forsaken,  though  I  knew  I  was  not  forsaken. 
Grandmother  was  very  feeble,  and  begged  mother  from 
week  to  week  to  stay  with  her.  Aunt  Lowizy  kept  house 
for  father,  so  he  was  comfortable,  and  I  was  with  Miss 
Runciman. 

"  It  seems  as  if  my  duty  lay  here,"  mother  wrote. 

As  for  me,  I  did  one  thing  ;  I  studied  to  sing.  I  did 
not  know  I  could  study  so.  Instead  of  urging  me  on,  my 
teacher  was  obliged  to  restrain  me.  She  said  I  must  keep 
in  robust  health,  or  my  voice  would  suffer  ;  I  must  not 
practise  too  much,  or  my  voice  would  suffer ;  I  must  not 
practise  too  little,  or  my  voice  would  suffer.  Above  all, 
accustom  throat  and  chest,  by  cold  bathing,  exercise,  grad- 
ual exposure  to  cool  air,  to  changes,  so  that  I  should  not 
contract  that  detestable  habit  of  taking  cold.  A  singer  who 
was  always  taking  cold  was  of  no  account. 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  1 23 

Miss  Runciman  said  that  many  things  would  have  to  be 
omitted  in  my  training,  because  I  had  begun  so  late, 
or,  as  she  phrased  it,  because  "she  had  not  found  me 
earlier.''  "  But  you  have  intelligence,"  she  added,  look- 
ing at  me  keenly;  "you  will  be  constantly  picking  up 
things.'' 

The  summer  had  turned  out  so  differently  from  what  I 
had  expected.  We  did  not  travel  about ;  the  carriage  re- 
mained there  by  the  falls;  it  seemed  as  stationary  as  Rachel 
Cobb's  little  house  itself.  And  Vane  Hildreth  was  shut 
up  in  that  house.  A  nurse  had  been  brought  from  Chil- 
ton, a  middle-aged  woman,  who  was  very  patient,  who  did 
not  resent  it  even  when  her  charge  snatched  up  her  own 
hymn-book  from  the  stand  by  the  bed  and  threw  it  at 
her.  Fortunately  the  hymn-book  missed  fire,  but  it  landed 
squarely  against  Miss  Cobb's  mirror,  which  was  hung  upon 
the  wall  opposite  the  bed.  The  glass  splintered  symmet- 
rically from  the  centre  outward,  and  at  almost  the  same 
moment  the  owner  of  it,  who  was  in  the  kitchen  stewing 
currants,  rushed  into  the  room  and  said  she  thought  she 
heard  a  crash. 

Bashy,  who  was  visiting  her  brother  at  just  this  time, 
and  who  gave  me  the  account  of  what  occurred,  said  that 
if  Vane  had  had  a  pistol  within  reach  she  supposed  he 
would  then  and  there  have  shot  the  three  women  cono-re- 
gated  in  the  room,  and  afterwards  turned  the  weapon  upon 
himself.  He  was  sitting  bolstered  up  in  the  bed.  The 
nurse  had  just  entered,  singing  "Hark,  from  the  tomb." 
Not  only  was  she  singing  this,  but  she  was  snuffling,  as  if 
the  nasal  passages  were  obstructed.  Bashy  informed  me 
that  she  did  not  in  the  least  blame  her  brother,  whose  tem- 
per was  becoming  "  something  perfectly  awful." 

"  What  would  you  be,  Billy,"  the  girl  interrupted  herself 


124 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


to  ask,  "if  you  had  been  shut  up  in  Rachel  Cobb's  bedroom 
for  more  than  four  weeks  ?" 

I  felt  myself  unable  to  guess  what  I  should  be. 

"Well,"  went  on  Bashy,  who  was  sitting  on  the  bearskin 
which  was  spread  on  the  river  bank,  "  Miss  Cobb  came  in 
as  if  she  had  been  thrown  from  a  mortar  by  somebody  who 
had  aimed  her  as  near  Vane's  bed  as  she  could  alight  and 
not  be  actually  on  it.  She  had  a  handful  of  currants  in  one 
hand,  and  the  red  juice  dropped  on  to  Vane's  face.  She 
looked  around  the  room.  'Didn't  I  hear  a  crash?'  she 
asked.  Then  she  saw  the  mirror  and  flung  up  her  hands,  the 
currants  dropping  into  Vane's  neck.  Of  course  he  swore  j 
he  doesn't  do  much  else  now,  poor  fellow,  and  you  can't 
blame  him  much.  '  My  lookin'-glass  !'  cried  Miss  Cobb. 
Then  her  eye-glasses  fell  off.  '  It's  the  one  my  great- 
grandmother  had  when  she  married  her  second  husband — 
and  it's  a  dretful  bad  sign  ;  it's  a  wuss  sign  'n  hearin'  the 
death  watch  or  seem'  three  white  bosses  one  after  the  other. 
Somebody  in  this  house  '11  die  'fore  the  year's  out.  I  never 
knew  a  broken  lookin'-glass  to  fail — never  !' 

"  Having  told  us  this  cheerful  bit,  Miss  Cobb  proceeded 
to  gather  up  the  fragments  and  carry  them  out.  The  nurse 
followed.  She  said  she  didn't  suppose  her  presence  was 
necessary  while  Mr.  Hildreth  had  his  sister  with  him.  What 
do  you  suppose  Vane  did  then  ?  Well,  he  cried  ;  he  actually 
sobbed  like  a  girl,  and  I  cried  with  him.  He  said  if  the 
looking-glass  knew  what  'twas  about  he'd  be  the  one  to  die, 
and  a  good  thing,  too ;  he  never  'd  be  able  to  sing  another 
note,  and  wouldn't  I  ask  Miss  Armstrong  if  she  wouldn't 
please  come  in  and  sing  to  him  ;  he  wanted  to  know  how 
she  was  getting  along.     Now,  will  you  go  ?" 

This  request  had  come  so  very  unexpectedly  that  I  hesi- 
tated involuntarily.     I  had  not  seen  Mr.  Hildreth  since  that 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  1 25 

day  when  he  had  been  brought  to  Miss  Cobb's.  Seeing  my 
hesitation,  Bashy  flushed  and  said,  quickly : 

"  I  hope  you're  not  a  prude  as  well  as — " 

"As  what?"  I  asked,  quickly. 

"  Oh,  as  well  as  having  notions  about  wine  and  cards,  and 
being  a  little  Puritan  generally." 

This  made  me  angry.  If  there  was  anything  I  did  not 
feel  like,  that  thing  was  a  Puritan.     I  rose. 

"  I'll  2:0  now  and  see  your  brother,"  I  said. 

I  walked  away;  I  walked  slowly  because  I  wanted  to  run. 
I  felt  my  cheeks  burning.  I  heard  Bashy's  contralto  voice 
singing  in  a  very  irritating  way.  This  is  what  she  was  sing- 
ing, apparently  improvising  the  music  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment : 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  devil, 

With  his  little  spade  and  shovel, 
Digging  praties  in  the  garden, 
With  his  tail  cocked  up  ?" 

These  words  did  not  seem  appropriate  to  me  or  to  the 
situation,  but  the  girl  was  singing  them  with  great  air,  as  if 
they  were  remarkably  fitting.  I  would  not  turn  my  head. 
I  heard  her  laugh.  Then  I  asked  myself  if  she  had  told  me 
the  truth — had  her  brother  really  made  that  request. 

However,  I  had  said  I  would  go,  and  so  I  kept  on.  Lotus 
had  come  from  somewhere,  and  was  sedately  following  me. 
I  walked  slower  and  slower  as  I  came  near  Miss  Cobb's 
house.  That  lady  was  in  her  kitchen.  There  was  the 
smell  of  boiling  sugar  in  the  air,  and  a  dish  of  currants  was 
standing  on  the  table.  Miss  Cobb  was  flushed  as  if  from 
some  recent  excitement.  On  my  appearance  she  instantly 
told  me,  in  a  high  voice,  that  she  hoped  I'd  never  let  a 
young  man   into  my  house,  no   matter  if   he  had  broken 


126  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

every  bone  in  his  body.  And  then  her  eye-glasses  fell  off 
and  narrowly  escaped  going  into  the  syrup  on  the  stove. 

I  passed  on  to  the  bedroom.  Mr.  Hildreth's  face  was 
towards  me ;  it  changed  greatly  when  he  saw  me,  and  I 
thought  he  must  be  very  grateful  to  any  one  who  would 
come  to  see  him.     He  tried  to  raise  himself  higher. 

When  I  entered  I  saw  that  the  nurse  was  sitting  in  a 
large  rocker  by  the  one  window.  She  rose  and  said  she 
would  go  and  see  about  "his  broth."  Bathsheba  had  told 
me  that  the  nurse  never  spoke  of  her  patient  by  his  name, 
but  always  "  he"  and  "him,"  just  as  if,  said  Bashy,  "she  'd 
been  his  wife." 

"  Shut  the  door,"  said  the  man  on  the  bed.  "  I  don't 
want  those  creatures  to  look  at  me." 

I  didn't  like  to  obey  him.  It  seemed  so  ridiculous  to  do 
as  he  ordered.     I  swung  the  door  a  little. 

"  Now  come  here !"  I  advanced  to  the  bed  and  put  my 
hand  in  his  extended  palm.  "You  see  I  can't  be  polite," 
he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  how  good  it  is  of  you  to  come  !  I 
lie  here  day  after  day  with  nothing  to  do  but  look  at  those 
two  women  and  think  how  I  might  be  out-of-doors — perhaps 
with  you — and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  swear  my  soul  into  hell. 
Oh,  do  forgive  me !  Sometimes  I  try  to  think  a  few  good 
thoughts,  but  I  can't  do  it — I'm  like  that  man  who  would 
rather  curse  than  bless  any  time,  because  it  '  seemed  more 
nttin'!'" 

The  speaker's  face,  now  that  it  had  grown  thin  and  pallid, 
brought  out  his  noteworthy  eyes  still  more ;  and  what  I 
have  called  his  foreign  look  was  emphasized. 

"Sit  down  in  that  chair,"  said  he;  "you  look  now  as  if 
you  were  going  directly."  I  sat  down  in  the  chair.  I  was 
uneasy,  and  I  had  a  very  strong  feeling  that  Miss  Cobb 
might  be  listening  behind  that  half-shut  door.     I  suppose 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  127 

I  glanced  that  way,  for  my  companion  immediately  asked, 
"  Do  you  think  that  pig-woman  is  listening  ?"  I  observed 
that  she  might  do  such  a  thing.  "Might!  She  would — I 
know  she  would.  Well,  since  you  won't  shut  the  door,  I'll 
see  if  I  can  talk  so  that  she  can't  possibly  hear  me.  It's  so 
good  of  you  to  come  !  You're  a  regular  missionary,  aren't 
you  ?     And  I  always  hated  missionaries." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Never  mind  thanking  me,  since  I  don't  hate  you.  Are 
you  happy  ?" 

I  didn't  quite  like  to  answer  this  question,  but  I  did  say 
"yes." 

"  My  aunt  is  good  to  you  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes!" 

"  Ah  !  Then  I  know  your  voice  is  coming  on  all  right. 
Won't  you  move  your  chair  up  a  little  nearer  this  cursed 
bed — no,  no,  I  mean  this — well,  this  blessed  bed?"  I 
obeyed  him.  ".Now,  please,  let  me  hold  your  hand.  It  is 
as  if,  when  you  touch  me,  a  stream  of  health  came  into  my 
poor  veins.  Thank  you.  You  are  a  missionary,  surely. 
Sometimes  I  hear  you  a  good  ways  off  practising.  Sing  the 
scale  to  me." 

I  sang  the  scale.  I  don't  know  how  I  sang  it,  for  Vane 
was  looking  steadily  at  me.  In  my  heart  I  called  him  Vane, 
for  I  heard  his  sister  continually  speaking  of  him  by  that 
name.     He  groaned. 

"And  to  think  I  sha'n't  be  the  tenor  this  fall!''  he  ex- 
claimed. 

I  would  not  respond  that  I  should  not  be  the  soprano. 
I  only  made  the  remark  that  he  was  so  much  better  that 
he  might  sins:  before  the  season  was  out. 

"What,  come  in  on  crutches  and  hobble  about  the  stage  ? 
Besides,  my  voice  is  as  lame  as  I  am.     Just  hear  it !" 


I28  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

In  a  half-voice  he  sang,  "  To  you,  my  love,  to  you."  I 
felt  myself  blushing,  and  then  blushing  yet  more  hotly  with 
rage  that  I  had  done  so.  Certainly  this  man's  eyes  were 
more  effective  in  his  white,  hollow  face  than  they  had  been 
when  he  was  well.  At  this  moment  the  door  was  pushed 
slowly  open,  and  Miss  Cobb  asked,  "  Did  you  call  ?" 

"  No,"  snarled  Vane. 

I  saw  Rachel's  eyes  dart  to  our  clasped  hands,  but  I  sat 
quiet,  without  starting  in  the  least,  though  my  impulse  was 
to  spring  away.  I  wondered  where  would  be  the  next 
visiting-place  of  our  hostess,  for  there  would  she  tell  a  tale 
about  me  and  this  sick  man.  The  door  was  drawn  back 
to  precisely  the  position  in  which  I  had  placed  it,  and 
Rachel  retired. 

"You  are  ever  so  much  better,"  I  repeated,  hardly  know- 
ing what  I  said. 

"Am  I?  Yes,  I  know  that  I  am.  But — "  he  paused, 
gazing  at  me.  His  look  was  so  wistful,  so  piteous,  that 
something  seemed  to  melt  within  me.  It  was  as  if  his  dog 
had  looked  at  me  thus. 

"  You  are  sorry  for  me,"  he  whispered ;  and  I  whispered 
back,  "Yes,  I  am  sorry." 

I  did  not  understand  why  this  whisper  interchanged 
should  have  such  an  effect  of  intimacy,  even  more  than 
our  mutual  handclasp  had  produced. 

"Well,"  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  it's  something 
to  have  you  sorry  for  me.  Please  don't  go  yet,"  as  I  with- 
drew my  hand.  I  sat  still.  "  I've  almost  made  up  my  mind 
to  tell  you  something,"  he  said,  still  in  a  half-whisper.  "  If 
I  were  sure  that  woman  wouldn't  come  in,  I'd  try  to  tell 
you.     You  would  let  me  ?"  eagerly. 

"Certainly,"  I  replied,  promptly.  And  then  it  almost 
seemed   as  if  my  promptness  annoyed  him.      He    turned 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  120. 

his    head   restlessly    on   his    pillow.      He    looked   at   the 
door. 

"  I  suppose  you  don't  want  to  shut  that  door  and  latch 
it  ?"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  there's  no  reason  why  I  should  do  that." 
"  But  those  damn  women — I  mean  those  clear  women — 
may  come  in  at  any  moment." 
"  No  matter." 

"What !"  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  his  face 
grew  red.  "  Supposing  you  were  a  man  who  had  seen  a 
girl  who  was — whom  you — who  wasn't  like  any  other  girl 
you'd  ever  met — whom  you  thought  of  every  minute — 
whom  you  couldn't  see  because  you  had  broken  all  your 
bones  —  and  — and  you  heard  her  voice  sometimes  —  and 
you  ate  your  heart  out  lying  and  thinking  of  her— and  now 
she  was  sitting  beside  you — and  though  you  hadn't  really 
known  her,  it  was  just  as  if  you  had  known  her  a  long  time, 
what  should  you —    Oh,  the  devil !" 

He  sank  back  on  his  pillow  as  this  exclamation  left  his 
lips.  The  nurse  was  just  entering  with  a  tray  on  which 
was  a  cup  of  steaming  broth. 

"  It's  quite  time  he  had  his  nourishment,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  me.     I  rose. 

"Are  you  going?"  he   asked.     This  inquiry  was   made 
with  such  a  desperate  air  that  I  sank  back  in  my  seat. 
"  Take  that  broth  away  !"  Vane  commanded. 
11  But  the  doctor's  orders  are  to  keep  up  your  strength," 
responded  the  nurse,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
"Take  that  broth  away  !"  repeated  the  young  man. 
I  rose  again.     I  felt  that  I  would  not  remain  another 
minute.     I  walked  to    the  door.     There  I  turned   to   say 
"  Good-bye." 

"Miss  Armstrong,"  cried  Vane,  with  a  still  greater  ap- 
9 


j^O  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

pearance  of  desperation.  "If  you  won't  stay  until  this 
lady  with  the  hot  broth  will  go,  why,  then,  I  must  tell  you 
before  her — " 

"  Mr.  Hildreth  !"  I  exclaimed,  my  heart  jumping  with 
still  greater  excitement.  But  he  would  not  be  stopped. 
His  eyes  were  flashing  fire. 

"That  I  love  you,  Miss  Armstrong!  Yes.  I  haven't 
known  you  long,  but  I  began  to  love  you  the  first  time  I 
saw  you,  and  have  gone  right  on  loving  you  more  and  more. 
Now,"  glancing  furiously  at  the  nurse,  "  hand  me  that 
broth!" 

I  hurried  from  the  room,  coming  plump  upon  Rachel 
close  to  the  door.  She  caught  at  my  sleeve  as  I  was  trying 
to  go  by  her.  Her  jaws  snapped  and  her  glasses  dropped 
off. 

"  Good  land,  Wilhelmina  Armstrong !"  she  cried.  "  Did 
you  hear  that  ?"  She  had  fast  hold  of  me,  and  I  could  not 
go  on  without  taking  her  with  me.  "  Of  course  he  must  be 
raving  crazy,  or  he  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

This  complimentary  remark  I  swallowed  in  silence,  hardly 
noticing  it  at  the  moment.  But  I  recalled  it  later  with  no 
exhilarating  effect  on  my  self-esteem.  I  made  another  at- 
tempt to  go,  but  Rachel  was  not  ready  to  release  me.  She 
was  staring  at  me  and  listening  at  the  same  time  for  sounds 
in  the  next  room. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  them  broken  bones  have  gone  to  his 
head.  The  doctor  said  they  might."  She  now  manifested 
a  willingness  to  walk  along  with  me.  I  hurried  out  of  the 
house.  As  soon  as  we  were  in  the  yard  Rachel  seized  me 
again.  "  He's  certainly  crazy,"  she  repeated.  "  I  d'  know, 
I'm  sure,  what  I  should  do  if  any  man  should  tell  me,  'fore 
folks,  that  he  loved  me.  I  do  s'pose  I  should  go  right  into 
hysterics." 


EEFORE    WITNESSES 


131 


She  spoke  as  if  hysterics  were  something  made  and  pro- 
vided as  a  retreat  for  women  before  unexpected  declara- 
tions of  love.  I  began  to  laugh  excitedly.  Then  I  be- 
thought me  that,  if  Mr.  Hildreth  heard  me,  he  might  think 
I  was  mocking  at  him.  I  stopped  as  suddenly  as  I  had 
begun.  My  one  longing  at  this  instant  was  to  get  away 
from  Rachel  Cobb.  And  Rachel  plainly  intended  that  I 
should  not  get  away  just  yet.  She  had  more  to  say.  The 
incident  was  too  full  of  interest :  it  was  something  to  roll 
under  the  tongue  now  and  for  many  a  visit  yet  to  come. 

I  hurried  down  the  narrow  path  towards  the  road,  Rachel 
close  by  my  side.  She  had  given  up  listening  to  what 
might  pass  between  the  nurse  and  Mr.  Hildreth,  deciding 
that  she  would  rather,  in  view  of  the  circumstances,  be  with 
me  for  the  next  few  moments.  I  saw  that  I  could  not  shake 
her  oft.  Instead  of  trying  any  more  to  do  so,  I  suddenly 
stopped  at  the  turnstile  in  the  fence  and  leaned  upon  it, 
putting  on  an  air  of  leisure.  Rachel  did  not  lean ;  she 
stood  upright  close  to  me.  I  was  quivering  with  excite- 
ment, but  I  called  up  all  my  self-control,  that  I  might  hide 
that  fact  from  my  companion. 

"  I  never  did  !"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  silence,  during 
which  she  had  stared  closely  at  me.  I  made  no  reply  to 
this.     "What  you  goiiv  to  do  'bout  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Do  ?     Nothing." 

"  Nothin1  ?     Sha'n't  you  soo  him  ?" 

"No  :   I  don't  think  I  shall  sue  him." 

"Wall ;  you'll  have  to  do  something.  You  can't  let  such 
a  thing  pass  'thout  doin'  nothin'.  'Twouldn't  be  right.  I 
guess  your  father  '11  see  'bout  it.  Why,  it's  equal  to  breach 
of  promise,  or  divorce — or — or — "  Imagination  failed  Miss 
Cobb  at  this  juncture.  I  remained  motionless,  leaning  on 
the  turnstile.     "He  ought  to  be  took  up."  clicked  Rachel. 


132  IN    THE    FIRST   PERSON 

"I  don't  believe  but  what  the  s'lectmen  can  take  him  up. 
If  you  want  me  to,  I'll  speak  to  'em  'bout  it.  I  s'pose  you'll 
feel  kind  of  delikit  'bout  doin'  it  yourself." 

"You  needn't  speak  to  them  on  my  account." 

"  Needn't  ?  Wall,  jes'  's  you  say.  But  I  hope  you  ain't 
goin'  to  take  any  stock  in  what  that  feller's  jest  said."  I 
made  no  reply.  I  was  asking  myself  in  a  startled  way  if  I 
did  "  take  any  stock  "  in  his  words.  "  Be  ye  ?"  insisted  Miss 
Cobb. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"  All  I  c'n  say  is,  you'll  git  dretfully  took  in  if  you  do. 
Why,  he's  makin'  fun  of  ye.  Anybody  c'n  see  that  with 
half  an  eye.     I  call  it  shameful !     He  ought  to  be  took  up." 

Here  my  companion  turned  and  went  back  into  the  house. 
Thus  released,  I  hurried  along  the  river  path.  But  I  was 
not  going  where  I  should  be  likely  to  see  any  one.  I  went 
on  past  the  falls.  Bathsheba,  under  the  hackmatacks, 
called  to  me  to  come  and  practise  with  her,  but  I  shook  my 
head.  I  was  sure  I  could  not  sing  now.  I  heard  Miss  Run- 
ciman's  clear  high  notes  from  somewhere  beyond  the  car- 
riage. We  never  know  when  there  will  be  an  apparently 
causeless  revulsion  in  us.  I  wanted  to  put  my  hands  over 
my  ears  as  the  delicious  notes  reached  me.  I  ran  on.  Be 
sure  I  had  not  forgotten  anything  that  Miss  Runciman  had 
told  me  about  her  nephew.  I  was  thinking  of  what  she  had 
said  all  the  time  I  was  listening  to  him. 

Yes,  of  course,  he  was  amusing  himself.  There  could 
not  be  the  slightest  doubt  about  that.  And  I  resented  the 
fact  deeply  and  seriously.  Still — well,  this  was  the  first 
time  any  man  had  ever  told  me  he  loved  me,  and  naturally 
the  words  had  a  different  effect  from  what  they  might  have 
had  upon  another  listener — Miss  Rachel  Cobb,  for  instance. 
Certainly  Mr.  Hildreth  was  trying  to  kill  time  ;  he  couldn't 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  133 

occupy  himself  entirely  by  swearing.  He  needed  some  other 
recreation.  Still,  I  could  not  help  recalling  his  eyes,  and 
the  peculiar  vibration  in  his  voice.  At  the  same  time,  I 
knew  that  his  eyes  and  his  voice  could  ably  take  part  in  a 
scene  of  love-making.  Taking  everything  into  considera- 
tion, it  seemed  very  fortunate  that  I  understood  Vane  Hil- 
dreth — this  phase  of  him — so  well ;  very  fortunate,  indeed. 
Otherwise  I  might,  having  had  no  experience  in  love  affairs, 
have  taken  him  rather  seriously ;  yes,  I  might  even  have 
srone  so  far  as  to  "  soo "  him.  Here  I  be2:an  to  lau^h, 
and  I  was  still  laughing  when  some  one  spoke  just  be- 
hind me. 

It  was  Miss  Runciman,  and  she  said  she  was  glad  to  find 
me  so  happy.  She  came  forward,  pausing  close  to  me.  She 
looked  at  me ;  then  she  looked  again.  "  What  have  you 
been  doing?"  she  asked. 

I  made  up  my  mind  on  the  instant.  Rachel  would  tell 
the  whole  affair  to  a  great  many  people  before  twenty-four 
hours  were  over.  I  would  tell  it,  too.  It  was  not  like  other 
tender  declarations.  "I  have  been  hearing  a  man  tell  me 
he  loves  me,"  I  answered,  promptly. 

She  glanced  still  more  sharply  at  me.  "  Remember,"  she 
said,  with  emphasis,  "  that  you  are  to  be  a  singer.  A  singer 
gives  herself  to  her  art  wholly.  She  mustn't  play  at  love, 
save  on  the  stage." 

"  I  know  it,"  I  responded,  eagerly.  Before  I  could  speak 
again,  she  said  : 

"  I  hope  you  made  young  Blake  understand.  Of  course, 
he,  however,  could  not  tempt  you." 

"  It  wasn't  young  Blake."  How  very  odd  that  she  had 
thought  of  Bidwell ! 

"  Xot  Blake  ?"  She  put  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  turned 
me  more  fully  towards  her.     I  looked  in  her  eyes ;  I  sue- 


!34 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


ceeded  in  keeping  my  gaze  in  hers  during  the  next  question 
and  reply.     "  Who,  then  ?" 

"  Mr.  Hildreth." 

"  Oh  !"  Here  her  gaze  wandered,  and  she  visibly  relaxed 
in  her  attitude.  If  I  had  been  cherishing  anything  senti- 
mental in  regard  to  Vane  Hildreth,  I  should  have  received 
another  blow  now.  Miss  Runciman  gave  a  little  laugh. 
"Oh!"  again.  "So  Vane  has  been  taking  up  his  time  in 
that  way  ?  Poor  fellow  !  I  hope  you'll  overlook  his  weak- 
ness. Still,  he  ought  to  know  better.  How  did  you  find 
him  this  morning?"  I  replied  that  he  seemed  very  impa- 
tient, but  that  he  was  gaining.  "  Yes  ;  he  will  be  out  of  bed 
within  a  few  weeks,  the  doctor  says.  But  the  whole  affair 
will  be  very  tedious.  Do  you  feel  that  those  lower  notes 
are  strengthening  any,  Billy?  Try  them — but  try  not  to 
appear  as  if  you  were  uncertain,  you  know.  Attack  them 
with  confidence.  I  wish  I  could  give  you  an  example,  but 
my  lower  register — bah  !      I'm  growing  old." 

I  did  as  she  requested,  and  I  felt  myself  excelling  all  my 
other  efforts.  I  sang  so  that  my  soul  seemed  to  catch  fire 
from  my  voice.  And  all  the  time  I  watched  Miss  Runci- 
man's  face  as  if  that  were  the  source  of  my  inspiration. 
And  I  saw  it  change  and  glow  with  greater  and  greater 
triumph — and  what  was  that  ?  How  could  it  be  suspicion  ? 
Suspicion  in  regard  to  what  ?  When  this  question  entered 
my  mind  it  seemed  to  have  an  instant  effect  on  my  voice. 
I  stopped  singing.  Miss  Runciman  suddenly  and  impul- 
sively took  me  in  her  arms,  pushing  my  hat  off  and  thrust- 
ing the  hair  from  my  forehead. 

"  Magnificent !  Magnificent !"  she  cried.  "  Oh,  I  wasn't 
wrong  in  this  whim !  But — "  Here  she  paused.  I  could 
not  ask  a  question.  "  I  suspect  you — yes,  I  suspect  you. 
But  no,  that  is  impossible  !" 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  135 

I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  as  to  what  she  meant.  I 
stood  there  in  silence  while  her  eyes  continued  to  dwell 
upon  me  as  if  they  were  trying  to  probe  my  soul.  After  a 
little  she  released  me,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  What  a  clear 
lake  your  consciousness  is  !  Well,  that's  a  good  thing. 
But  the  trouble  with  good  things  is,  they  don't  last.  Billy, 
in  five  years,  nay,  in  two  years  from  now,  I  wonder  if  your 
soul  will  be  as  transparent  ?" 

Again  I  did  not  answer.  I  did  not  know  that  I  was 
transparent  in  any  way.  It  occurred  to  me,  fleetingly,  at 
this  moment,  that  I  had  hitherto  been  very  little  self-con- 
scious. I  had  never  analyzed  a  thought,  a  feeling,  or  a 
motive.  Did  people  analyze  themselves  ?  That  must  be 
a  strange  thins:  to  do. 

When  Miss  Runciman  spoke  again,  she  said,  lightly  : 
"  It's  quite  a  relief  to  me  to  know  that  you  have  not  imag- 
ined that  you  had  an  entanglement  with  that  young  Blake. 
Such  affairs  sometimes  make  more  or  less  unpleasantness. 
But  as  for  Vane — "  here  she  paused  and  laughed.  She  did 
not  finish  the  sentence.  It  was  really  not  worth  while  to 
contemplate  Vane's  love-making  to  me. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Runciman  had  the  gray  colt 
saddled,  and  rode  off  to  the  post-office.  She  occasionally 
did  this,  and  every  time  I  saw  the  colt  gallop  away  carry- 
ing her  upon  his  back  I  was  seized  with  a  harrowing  fear 
that  he  would  throw  her  off.  I  confided  this  fear  to  my 
father  one  day  when  we  met  the  gray  tearing  home  from 
the  village  with  Miss  Runciman  in  the  saddle.  The  gravel 
flew  up  from  the  horse's  hoofs  as  he  dashed  by. 

"  He'll  throw  her  some  day !"  I  exclaimed. 

Father  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  winked  and 
laughed.  ';  Don't  you  fret,  Bill.  That's  a  woman  that 
can  take  care  of  herself.     Besides,  she's  paid  for  the  colt. 


136  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  shaVt  lose  a  cent  if  she  does  git  throwed — not  a 
cent." 

I  turned  and  looked  at  father.  I  remember  that  this 
was  the  first  time  that  I  really  suspected  that  he  wasn't  jok- 
ing when  he  said  such  things — that  he  really  meant  them. 
Something  cold  seemed  to  touch  my  heart.  I  made  in- 
voluntarily a  slight  shrinking  movement.  I  saw  that  he 
noticed  that  movement.  A  curious  glint  came  to  his  eyes ; 
but  he  laughed  again  as  he  said:  "You  ain't  goin'  to  set 
up  to  be  like  your  mother,  be  you,  Billy  ?  But,"  with  unc- 
tion, "  there  ain't  many  such  good  women  's  your  mother, 
now,  I  tell  ye." 

It  was  the  very  next  day  after  that — it  was  the  last  clay 
of  August — that  I  hurriedly  entered  the  kitchen  when  Aunt 
Lowizy  was  picking  over  huckleberries. 

"  I've  come  to  say  good-bye,"  I  announced.  "  Miss  Run- 
ciman  has  decided  to  move  on.     We  start, this  afternoon." 

"  I  want  to  know !"  Aunt  Lowizy  looked  up  from  her 
berries.  I  glanced  about  the  old-fashioned  room,  and  then, 
without  the  least  warning,  I  began  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  mother  was  here  !"  I  exclaimed. 

Aunt  Lowizy  said  :  "  There,  now,  so  do  I.  But  she'll  be 
here  when  you  come  back,  sure." 

When  I  came  back !  To  my  exaggerated  sense  it  was 
as  if  years  might  pass  before  then — and  I  had  a  wild,  in- 
tense feeling  that  I  couldn't — no,  I  could  not — go  without 
seeing  mother.  I  tried  immediately,  however,  to  control 
my  emotion. 

There  was  father  coming  in  from  the  barn.  I  struggled 
with  myself  to  such  good  purpose  that,  though  my  face 
was  red,  I  was  yet  able  to  tell  father  when  he  entered,  in 
a  matter-of-fact  way,  that  the  big  wagon  would  start  that 
afternoon — that  I  had  only  an  hour.     He  walked  out  with 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  137 

me,  keeping  with  me  along  the  river  path.  He  asked  if  Bid 
Blake  knew;  and  I  said  no,  the  decision  had  been  reached 
since  Miss  Runciman  heard  from  the  post-office.  And  I 
asked  him  to  say  good-bye  to  Bidwell  for  me. 

Father  kissed  me  when  we  reached  the  curve  in  the  path, 
and  he  told  me  that  if  I  had  a  mind  to  play  my  cards  right, 
Miss  Runciman  would  probably  do  first-rate  by  me.  Then 
he  kissed  me  loudly  again,  and  turned,  while  I  went  on 
towards  the  carriage.  I  stopped  and  looked  back  at  him, 
a  strange,  confused  feeling  having  possession  of  me. 

As  I  stood  there  gazing  at  him,  Bathsheba  from  below 
called  :  "  Billy,  come  down  here  !  Don't  stand  sentimen- 
talizing. Help  me  pack  these  eggs.  It  is  as  if  we  were 
going  into  an  eggless  country." 

At  almost  the  same  time  Rachel  Cobb  appeared  outside 
her  door.  "Wilhelmina,"  she  called,  distinctly,  "  Mr.  Hil- 
dreth  wants  you  to  come  here." 

I  hesitated  between  Mr.  Hildreth  and  the  eggs.  I  had 
not  seen  this  gentleman  since  the  interview  I  have  narrat- 
ed— the  interview  when  he  had,  before  witnesses,  informed 
me  that  he  loved  me.  Miss  Cobb  had  apparently  recov- 
ered from  the  excitement  caused  by  that  declaration,  and 
she  had  not,  to  my  knowledge,  communicated  with  the 
Selectmen  concerning  it.  But  she  had,  as  father  had  told 
me,  "peddled  it  all  over  the  neighborhood." 

As  he  gave  this  information  he  had  looked  sharply  in  my 
face.  I  replied  that  it  was  perfectly  ridiculous,  and  that  I 
supposed  it  had  happened  because,  as  Rachel  had  suggested, 
the  young  man's  bones  had  gone  to  his  head.  Whereupon 
father  had  given  his  great  laugh  and  had  said  nothing  more. 

As  I  stood  undecided,  Miss  Cobb  called  again,  and  this 
time  Bashy  also  heard  her  and  immediately  advised  me  to 
obey  what  she  said  was  the  higher  call.     So  I  went. 


138  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Mr.  Hildreth  was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the  house  in  a 
large  chair.  Two  crutches  were  resting  against  this  chair. 
He  leaned  forward  as  I  approached.  Lotus  was  lying  on 
the  ground  near  him.  The  dog  now  often  visited  his  mas- 
ter. I  naturally  felt  some  embarrassment  as  I  drew  near, 
and  this  feeling  was  not  lessened  by  the  knowledge  that 
Rachel  was  standing  in  the  doorway  carefully  examining 
me. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  are  better,"  I  exclaimed.  I  held  out 
my  hand,  which  was  taken  and  retained. 

"  Thanks — so  much,"  returned  Vane. 

Then  he  glanced  at  the  woman  watching  us.  With  ex- 
treme politeness  he  begged  for  a  glass  of  water.  Rachel 
moved  reluctantly  away.  The  instant  her  back  was  turned 
Vane  kissed  my  hand  ,  and  he  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  You've 
been  atrociously  cruel  to  me.  Don't  you  know  I  meant 
what  I  said  ?" 

I  smiled-,  and  I'm  afraid  I  blushed  also.  But  I  was 
able  to  say,  lightly :  "  I  suppose  I  haven't  given  the  matter 
much  consideration." 

It  was  Vane  who  grew  red  now.  But  before  he  could 
say  anything  Rachel  came  hurrying  out  with  the  water.  I 
said  we  were  all  so  thankful  that  Mr.  Hildreth  would  be 
able  to  get  away  so  soon,  and  that  Miss  Runciman  now 
felt  confident  that  he  would  be  able  to  sing  before  the  sea- 
son really  closed,  and — Good-bye,  Mr.  Hildreth  !" 

The  young  man  had  drawn  himself  up  in  his  chair  quite 
rigidly,  and  he  was  very  white.  "  Good-bye,  Miss  Arm- 
strong !"  he  returned. 

And  I  went  away,  with  Miss  Cobb  looking  at  us  both. 
Presently  I  heard  a  soft  footfall  behind  me.  There  was 
the  brindled  dog  following.  At  almost  the  same  instant 
his  master  called  him  sharply,  fiercely.     Lotus  paused,-  I 


BEFORE    WITNESSES  139 

glanced  back  to  see  him  hesitate.  He  whined  a  little  under 
his  breath.  His  master  called  again.  The  dog  went  slowly- 
back.  I  hurried  on.  I  did  not  go  to  the  carriage  im- 
mediately. I  sat  down  in  a  retired  spot  and  listened  to  the 
sound  of  the  falls.  I  hoped  that  Bashy  would  not  happen 
to  find  me  just  yet.  Very  probably  she  had  seen  me  re- 
turning from  Miss  Cobb's.  I  was  grieved  that  Vane  had 
called  Lotus  back  in  that  way.  And  Lotus  had  wished  to 
come  with  me.  Yes,  I  was  sore  about  that.  He  might 
have  let  the  dog  follow.  What  harm  would  his  coming  have 
done  ? 


IX 

BY   THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA. 

In  the  middle  of  that  September  there  was  a  great  south- 
erly gale.  It  was  to  be  our  last  week  in  the  carriage.  Miss 
Runciman  had  kept  near  the  coast.  Sometimes  we  travelled 
fifteen  miles  in  a  clay,  and  some  days  not  at  all.  We  always 
stopped  not  far  from  a  settlement,  but  never  in  the  village 
itself.  The  young  man,  or  rather  big  boy,  who  was  driver 
and  hostler  would  then  unhitch  the  horses  and  take  them  to 
a  stable,  finding  some  place  for  his  own  stay ;  Bashy  or  I 
would  sally  forth  to  get  whatever  provision  we  needed,  and 
Miss  Runciman  and  the  girl  who  remained  with  her  would 
prepare  the  meal.  We  had  very  good  times  at  those  meals. 
Miss  Runciman  possessed  great  skill  with  a  chafing-dish, 
and  many  were  the  curious  concoctions  she  made.  Some 
of  them  Lotus  ate  when  he  had  been  with  us,  but  the  most 
of  them  we  devoured.  I  should  have  been  ashamed  of  my 
appetite  if  the  others  had  not  been  equally  hungry.  And 
they  drank  wine  with  luncheon  and  dinner.  Our  most 
elaborate  meal  was  at  night.  For  a  time  the  having  din- 
ner at  night  was,  as  Rachel  Cobb  would  have  said,  "  most 
upsetting"  to  me.  Occasionally  we  all  went  to  the  hotel 
nearest  us,  and  Miss  Runciman,  who  was  what  seemed  to 
me  ridiculously  fastidious,  would  make  the  waiters  there 
rather  unhappy. 

But  it  was  the  custom  of  drinking  wine  to  which  I  could 


BY   THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  141 

not  become  reconciled.  It  was  some  light  wine  at  luncheon, 
and  often  a  bottle  of  champagne  at  dinner,  or  supper,  as  I 
always  thought  of  the  meal.  And  there  were  many  delicate, 
beautiful  glasses  from  which  to  drink,  and  two  or  three  curi- 
ous silver  cups  which  our  hostess  had  picked  up  in  her 
travels. 

I  recall  that  I  wished  to  drink  from  those  vessels — there 
was  a  charm  in  connection  with  them ;  wine  in  such  recep- 
tacles was  a  draught  of  romance.  At  the  same  time  I 
shrank,  and  had  the  feeling  that  it  was  low  to  do  such 
a  thing.  These  feelings  were  contradictory,  but  then  emo- 
tions are  frequently  contradictory. 

And  I  was  horribly  shocked  when  I  perceived  sometimes 
that  Bathsheba's  spirits  were  a  little  higher  after  her  cham- 
pagne than  before  it.  I  suppose  she  saw  this  in  my  face 
one  evening  as  she  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair  after  din- 
ner. She  had  been  trolling  out  a  drinking-song.  In  the 
midst  of  the  chorus  she  suddenly  stopped,  gazing  at  me. 

"Dear  little  Puritan  maiden  Priscilla  !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Look  at  her,  Aunt  Nora  !  Is  it  my  champagne  or  my  song 
that  brings  that  expression  of  horror  ?" 

Miss  Runciman  was  sitting  twirling  her  delicate-stemmed 
glass  absently  around  and  around  between  her  thumb  and 
finger.  There  was  a  slight  flush  on  her  face.  She  smiled 
at  her  niece  as  she  responded :  "  Bashy,  you  flatted  at  F  in 
the  last  line."  She  rose  and  suddenly  flung  up  her  hand 
with  her  glass  in  it.  There  was  the  fine  freedom  of  a  Bac- 
chante in  her  gesture  and  attitude.  I  leaned  forward  eager- 
ly, my  heart  beating  fast. 

Standing  thus,  Miss  Runciman  burst  out  singing,  or,  more 
accurately,  chanting : 

"  Go,  let  others  praise  the  Chian! 
This  is  soft  as  Muses'  string, 


142  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

This  is  tawny  as  Rhea's  lion, 

This  is  rapid  as  his  spring. 
Bright  as  Paphia's  eyes  e'er  met  us, 

Light  as  ever  trod  her  feet  ! 
And  the  brown  bees  of  Hymettus 

Make  their  honey  not  so  sweet." 

I  cannot  describe  the  enchanting  swing  and  rush  of  the 
words  as  enunciated  by  this  woman.  By  the  time  the  last 
line  had  left  the  singer's  lips  I  had  sprung  up  from  my 
chair.  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  thinking  of  doing. 
Bashy  laughed.  How  could  she  laugh  ?  My  eyes  were 
burning  as  they  rested  on  the  woman's  face.  Bathsheba 
poured  some  champagne  into  a  tall-stemmed  glass.  She 
rose  and  held  out  the  glass  to  me.  I  was  hardly  conscious 
that  I  extended  my  hand  for  it.  I  had  already  grasped  it 
when  a  curious  change  came  to  Miss  Runciman. 

"  Bathsheba  !"  she  cried,  sharply.  She  reached  forward 
and  suddenly  gave  a  sharp,  though  slight,  blow  to  my  hand. 
The  glass  fell,  breaking  on  the  table ;  the  wine  spread  on 
the  cloth. 

"  Well,  Aunt  Nora !"  exclaimed  Bashy,  "  you  are  a  queer 
woman.     What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

Miss  Runciman  was  cool  and  calm  on  the  moment.  She 
placed  her  own  glass  by  her  plate  and  sat  down  deliberately. 
"  I  mean  just  this,"  she  observed,  "  that  if  Billy  has  any  in- 
dividual notions  about  wine — or — or — brown  bread,  why,  let 
her  have  them." 

Here  the  speaker  laughed.  She  glanced  at  me.  My  face 
was  hot.  I  was  grateful  to  her  for  knocking  that  glass  from 
my  hand.  And  I  was  thinking  of  mother ;  and  I  was  try- 
ing to  keep  the  tears  back. 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said,  in  a  whisper. 

"No,"   said    Miss    Runciman,   seriously,    "you    needn't 


BY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  1 43 

thank  me.  If  there  be  any  blame  in  the  matter  it  belongs 
to  me  more  than  to  Bathsheba." 

And  when  I  came  to  think  the  matter  over  by  myself  I 
agreed  with  her.  I  determined  to  write  all  about  it  to 
mother,  but  the  days  kept  going  by  and  I  did  not  find  time, 
and  I  think  I  became  a  trifle  bewildered  concerning  the  sub- 
ject. Once  I  asked  myself  if  I  was  making  the  drinking  of 
an  occasional  glass  of  wine  stand  for  too  much.  When  I 
saw  my  mother  I  would  have  a  long  talk  with  her.  But, 
then,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  knew  that  mother  did 
not  approve  of  my  being  with  Miss  Runciman  and  learn- 
ing to  sing  of  her. 

I  hardly  know  how  I  came  to  tell  of  this  little  incident 
when  I  began  this  chapter  by  speaking  of  the  great  storm 
in  that  September.  Our  big  wagon  was  standing  on  the 
shingles  close  to  a  cove  that  was  called  Peggotty's  Cove. 
We  had  arrived  the  night  before,  and  had  sat  on  the  beach 
until  almost  midnight.  Not  a  person  had  come  near  us. 
Off  to  our  left  was  the  stretch  of  rocks  running  out  to  pro- 
tect the  entrance  to  a  small  harbor.  On  this  point  of  rocks 
burned  the  Bug  Light  like  a  little  candle,  throwing  its  beams 
upon  a  naughty  world.  There  were  small  cottages  over 
there,  and  we  could  see  the  lights  in  them.  It  was  breath- 
lessly still  that  evening.  The  water  rustled  placidly  on  the 
pebbles. 

We  three  women  talked  very  little,  but  we  sang  a  good 
deal.  I  had  been  learning  some  of  //  Trovatore.  Miss 
Runciman  said  she  had  a  fancy  to  see  what  I  would  do 
with  it.  I  went  over  several  of  the  soprano  solos  at  her 
request  now.  I  sang  the  English  version  of  the  libretto, 
for  she  wished  me  to  understand  my  words.  She  laid  great 
stress  from  the  first  on  my  knowing  the  meaning  of  what 
I  sang,  word  for  word. 


144 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


"  It's  a  good  time  for  that  first  solo  of  Leonora's,"  Miss 
Runciman  remarked.  "  Try  it."  I  did  try  it.  Let  me  say 
that  to  me  Verdi's  opera,  that  everybody  has  heard,  so  many 
times,  was  all  fresh  and  new.  It  appealed  to  me  keenly.  I 
was  carried  along  on  its  tide  of  emotion. 

I  began,  "  The  night,  calmly  and  peacefully,"  and  I  went 
on  until  I  had  reached  "A  wand'ring  minstrel  sung,"  then 
I  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Well,  continue,"  commanded  my  teacher. 

I  hesitated.  I  had  not  a  single  secret  to  keep ;  I  was  in 
love  with  no  one.  Yet  I  had  a  kind  of  dread  in  regard  to 
singing.  The  next  moment,  however,  obeying  her  request, 
I  finished  the  solo. 

"  To  heart,  and  eyes,  with  rapture  filled, 
The  earth  like  heav'n  appeared." 

Miss  Runciman  had  been  noiselessly  picking  up  peb- 
bles. Now  she  dropped  the  stones  and  turned  deliberately 
towards  me.  But  the  dusk  prevented  any  clear  sight.  Still, 
her  gaze  was  fixed  for  a  moment  or  two ;  then  she  reached 
forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  mine. 

"Of  course,  your  hands  are  cold,"  she  said;  and  that 
was  all  the  remark  she  made  then.  I  was  disappointed.  I 
wished  to  know  what  she  thought  of  my  voice ;  but  I  could 
not  ask  her.  After  a  little  Bashy  exclaimed,  glancing  at 
her  aunt :  "  I  say,  Auntie,  sha'n't  you  some  time  be  jealous 
of  your  understudy  ?"  I  had  begun  to  tremble  with  the  re- 
action. 

Miss  Runciman  laughed.  "  No,  my  dear  Bashy.  I  tri- 
umph with  her." 

The  elder  woman's  face,  when  we  went  back  to  the  car- 
riage, where  the  lamp  was,  seemed  very  white,  the  eyes 
shining  steadily. 


BY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  1 45 

At  the  door  we  all  delayed  to  look  at  the  bank  of  black 
cloud  which  lay  along  the  southern  horizon.  A  fisherman 
came  slouching  along  as  we  stood  there,  his  great  rubber 
boots  flapping  about  his  legs  as  he  walked.  "  Better  reef 
all  your  sails,  you  folks!"  he  called  out,  as  he  rolled  by. 
A  strong  scent  of  whiskey  came  from  him;  and  we  heard 
him  swearing  to  himself  as  he  went  on.  In  the  night,  or 
rather  in  the  early  morning,  I  was  wakened  by  the  roaring 
of  the  wind  across  the  harbor.  The  carriage  rocked  and 
clattered.  The  gale  had  begun,  and  a  southerly  gale  on  the 
Massachusetts  coast  is  something  to  be  remembered.  I 
could  not  think  of  sleeping  again,  and  just  as  the  light  grew 
more  clear  I  rose  and  dressed.  The  wind  always  excited 
me.  I  was  afraid  of  it,  and  yet  I  longed  to  be  out  in  it. 
As  I  crept  along  noiselessly  by  the  hammock  where  Miss 
Runciman  lay,  she  caught  me  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  whispered. 

"To  see  how  it  looks,"  I  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

She  still  held  my  sleeve. 

"  Have  you  slept?"  she  asked. 

"A  little." 

"I  have  not — not  a  wink,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  so  sorry." 

"Yes;  I'm  sure  you  are.  What  do  you  suppose  I've 
been  saying  over  and  over  to  myself  ?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Why,  this:  The  king  is  dead;  long  live  the  king!  Now 
go.     Perhaps  I  will  have  a  nap." 

I   went  on,  asking   myself  what   Miss  Runciman  could 

mean.     But  I  forgot  to  wonder  when  I  was  trying  to  walk 

across  the   shingles   towards   the  village,  which  was  more 

than  a  mile  distant  by  land;  but  across  the  harbor  water, 

from  this  bit  of  a  peninsula,  it  was  not  half  that  distance. 
10 


Izj.6  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

The  clouds  raced  over  the  sky,  and  the  stars  shone  fitfully. 
The  rocks  and  the  black  hollows  looked  blacker  than  ever. 
The  wind  drove  from  the  land,  flattening  every  wave  that 
tried  to  rear  a  crest  out  there  beyond  the  low-tide  line. 
The  Bus  Light  shone.  I  had  a  wild  idea  that  the  world 
was  whirling  off  somewhere,  and  that,  if  I  watched,  I  could 
see  it  going.  I  would  go  on.  I  had  never  been  on  the 
coast  until  I  came  this  journey  with  Miss  Runciman  ;  when 
I  was  by  myself  I  had  a  kind  of  feeling  as  if  I  were  be- 
witched. 

My  skirts  and  long  cloak  wound  about  me  so  that  I  could 
only  move  slowly.  My  hat  had  blown  off  as  I  had  stepped 
from  the  carriage;  it  had  instantly  whirled  away  into  space, 
and  I  knew  I  could  not  reclaim  it.  I  pulled  up  the  hood 
of  the  cloak  and  drew  it  far  over  my  face. 

I  moved  on  towards  the  village,  thus  facing  the  gale, 
and  conscious  of  a  delight  in  it.  The  gray  of  the  morning 
was  fast  becoming  luminous.  Suddenly  the  east  became 
flushed ;  the  sun  came  up  and  went  into  a  cloud. 

"  It's  going  to  rain,"  I  said.  I  had  reached  the  corner 
where  the  road  left  the  coast  somewhere  and  curved  tow- 
ards the  bit  of  a  hamlet  where  fishermen  and  farmers  lived. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  would  be  up  and  I  could  get  some 
new  milk  to  carry  back  with  me.  I  knew  how  early  coun- 
try people  rose.  I  walked  on,  with  head  bent,  not  seeing 
anything  but  the  ground  I  stepped  on,  and  not  knowing 
that  I  had  passed  a  corner  of  a  highway  that  led  inland. 
The  wind  was  roaring  in  the  tops  of  some  elms  by  the 
roadside  ;  the  sumacs  by  the  path  were  laid  over  half 
their  height,  their  great  maroon-colored  tufts  draggling  in 
the  road. 

I  had  hardly  had  a  vague  thought  that  there  was  a  sound 
of  rushing  steps  somewhere,  I  did  not  know  where,  when 


BY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  147 

something  hit  me  and  I  fell.  My  principal  sensation  was 
of  the  palms  of  my  hands  smarting  from  rubbing  on  the 
gravel.  Before  I  could  gather  myself  together,  some  one 
was  lifting  me  up.  I  had  a  glimpse  of  brown  gauntlet 
gloves  which  were  unfamiliar  to  me. 

"  Do  tell  me  you're  not  hurt  !"  exclaimed  a  mans 
voice. 

I  withdrew  myself  from  the  detaining  arms  and  answered 

promptly  : 

"  I'm  not  hurt  at  all.     But  what  knocked  me  over  ?" 

I  looked  up,  staggering  by  reason  of  the  wind  as  I  did  so. 

"  What !"  said  the  man's  voice.    "  It's  you,  is  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  who—" 

I  had  managed  by  this  time  to  see  the  person  who  was 
talking  to  me  thus.  A  tall  man,  with  bright,  strong  eyes. 
Where  had  I  seen  those  eyes  ?     Oh,  yes — 

"  Why,  is  it  Mr.  Maverick  ?"  I  asked.  I  was  surprised 
that  I  recalled  his  name,  but  it  came  pat  enough  the  in- 
stant I  saw  his  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  it's  Mr.  Maverick."  He  took  off  his  close  cap 
as  he  spoke.  "Audit's  Miss  Armstrong.  How  curious  ! 
But  tell  me  again  you're  not  hurt." 

"  Not  a  bit." 

I  was  preparing  to  resume  my  walk.  There  seemed  no 
reason  why  I  should  stop  and  try  to  talk  in  this  gale  with 
a  man  whom  I  knew  so  very  little. 

"  It  was  horribly  careless  of  me,"  he  went  on.  "  But  I 
never  dreamed  any  one  would  be  on  the  road  as  early  as 
this.  And  this  wind  makes  my  horse  wild.  He  has  come 
five  miles  like  a  crazy  thing.  He  dashed  around  that  cor- 
ner as  if  he  were  possessed." 

"Are  you  staying  here  ?" 

Mr.  Maverick  had  put  on  his  cap  with  a  firm  gesture  ;  he 


I48  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

had  turned  and  taken  his  horse  by  the  bridle  as  if  he 
would  accompany  me. 

"  I'm  staying  a  short  distance  from  here,"  I  answered, 
"for  a  day  or  two." 

"You  really  must  let  me  walk  with  you  for  a  little,"  he 
now  said,  "  until  I've  satisfied  myself  that  you're  not  in- 
jured. By  good  rights,  you  ought  to  have  a  broken  bone 
or  a  sprain." 

"  But  I  haven't." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  won't  be  sent  away  just  yet." 

We  walked  on  side  by  side,  he  leading  the  horse,  which 
I  recognized  as  the  one  father  had  sold  him.  The  wind 
shrieked  and  roared  around  us.  It  was  not  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  conversation  if  we  had  wished  to  talk. 

"  No  broken  bone  develops  itself,"  he  shouted,  after  lie 
had  watched  me  walk  by  his  side  for  a  few  moments. 

"  No,"  I  shouted  back. 

And  now  I  supposed  he  would  go.  He  seemed  to  be 
looking  here  and  there.  Presently  he  said :  "  They  told 
me  a  few  miles  back  that  that  travelling  house  carriage 
was  somewhere  down  here." 

"Are  you  trying  to  find  that?"  I  asked,  rather  startled. 

"  Yes,"  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  "  I  was  going  to  put 
up  my  horse,  and  then  explore  until  I  found  it.  I  want  to 
see  the  lady  who  'runs  it,'  as  they  said  when  I  inquired. 
Of  course,  you  can't  tell  me.     You  haven't  seen  it." 

"  Yes,  I've  seen  it,"  I  replied.  I  turned  and  pointed 
in  the  direction  from  which  I  had  come.  "  When  you 
get  around  that  corner  you'll  see  the  carriage  —  on  the 
beach." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !" 

He  paused  and  asked  again  if  I  were  sure  I  was  all  right; 
and  again  I  told  him. 


BY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  1 49 

He  stepped  near  his  horse,  put  his  hand  on  the  animal's 
withers  and  sprang  into  the  saddle. 

The  horse  plunged  ;  its  rider  snatched  off  his  cap  once 
more,  then  the  horse  dashed  into  a  swift  gallop.  Even 
above  the  wind  I  could  hear  the  smiting  of  its  hoofs  on  the 
ground.  I  resumed  my  walk.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  my 
mind  to  wonder  why  I  was  out  walking  in  such  a  gale. 
Was  it  merely  to  be  in  a  gale  ?  I  hurried  up  to  the  lee 
side  of  a  barn  and  sat  down  on  a  piece  of  timber  lying  there. 
I  was  looking  towards  the  north,  where  the  sky  was  still 
clear,  as  if  the  wind  had  swept  it.  I  could  feel  the  old  barn 
reel  as  I  leaned  my  back  against  it.  Presently  I  heard  the 
sound  of  feet  on  the  floor  within.  A  horse  ';  nickered  ";  a 
man's  hoarse  voice  spoke.  Then  came  the  sharp,  well- 
defined  noise  of  milk  falling  in  small  streams  into  a  tin  pail. 

After  a  few  moments  I  rose  and  was  about  to  go  around 
to  the  entrance  of  the  barn  and  ask  to  buy  some  milk.  As 
I  reached  the  corner  of  the  building  the  gale  gave  me  such 
a  buffet  full  in  the  face  that  I  shrank  back  again.  There 
was  a  dash  of  rain  in  the  wind,  too.  I  saw,  coming  through 
the  slanting  rain,  the  '-'depot  wagon  "  from  the  first  train. 

I  did  not  think  anything  about  this  fact,  however,  and  I 
stood  in  the  shelter,  idly  thinking  that  it  could  not  rain  long 
with  such  a  clear  sky  to  the  north. 

Somebody  in  the  barn  said:  ';  Hullo,  Bill,  that  you? 
Ain't  ye  'bout  blowed  ?     Got  any  passengers  ?" 

"  One.  He's  goin'  to  git  out  here.  Ain't  this  the  nearest 
to  that  cart  with  them  women  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  'tis." 

Something  more  was  said,  but  the  wind  began  a  still 
more  violent  shriek  and  wail. 

"What,  still  another  visitor?"   I  was  saying  to  myself. 

The  next  moment  a  man   spoke.     He   must  have  been 


150  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

close  to  the  other  side  of  the  boards  of  the  barn  wall.  He 
asked:  "'Bout  how  fur  is  it  to  that  wagon  where  the 
women  stay?''  When  I  heard  the  question  I  jumped.  It 
was  my  father  who  had  made  the  inquiry.  I  stood  still  for 
an  instant  to  take  in  this  fact.  Then  I  ran  around  to  the 
entrance,  pushing  against  the  wind  as  against  a  solid  wall. 
I  ran  up  to  father  and  caught  hold  of  his  arm.  The  ques- 
tion in  my  mind  was  so  dreadful  I  could  hardly  speak  it. 

"  Father,"  I  cried  out,  "  is  there  anything  the  matter  with 
mother?" 

Father  had  his  big  rubber  coat  on  and  his  cap  tied  over 
his  ears. 

"If  there  ain't  Billy  herself!"  he  cried,  and  he  kissed  me 
resoundingly.  The  milk  ceased  going  into  the  pail,  and  I 
knew  the  man  on  the  milking-stool  had  stopped  work  to 
listen  to  us. 

"How  is  mother?"  I  asked  again. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  she's  all  right,"  was  the  answer.  "  She 
ain't  got  home  yet." 

I  grew  weak  with  the  relief  I  felt.  I  had  not  heard  from 
mother  for  nearly  three  weeks.  I  stood  staring  at  father. 
He  didn't  return  my  gaze.  He  moved  towards  the  horse 
stall,  slapped  the  animal  on  the  hip,  then  walked  in  beside 
it,  opened  its  mouth,  and  looked  at  its  teeth.  I  began  to 
feel  an  ill-defined  but  decided  resentment  stirring  within 
me.     Then  I  reproved  myself  for  that  resentment. 

Father  came  from  the  stall  and  stood  beside  me.  He 
took  a  pipe  from  an  inner  pocket  and  carefully  examined 
the  contents  of  the  bowl ;  then  he  tapped  the  bowl  against 
the  timber  at  the  end  of  the  stall.  He  seemed  entirely 
occupied  with  what  he  was  doing,  and  yet  I  suddenly  im- 
agined that  I  detected  a  slight  embarrassment  in  his  man- 
ner.    As  for  me,  I  resolved  that  I  would  stand  there  and 


EY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  151 

choke  with  my  rising  curiosity  before  I  would  ask  why  he 
had  come. 

I  could  not  understand  why  there  was  a  current  of  rebel- 
lion or  indignation  in  my  mind,  a  rebellion  growing  stronger 
every  moment. 

"  Terrible  hard  wind,  ain't  it?!?   asked  father. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

He  put  his  pipe  back  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  He  spat 
on  the  floor.     Then  he  asked  : 

"  Ain't  there  no  place  where  you  'n  I  c'n  talk  a  minute?" 

I  reflected.  With  a  stranger  already  at  the  carriage 
there  seemed  no  room  there.  And  the  wind  blew  so— then 
I  thought  of  a  place. 

"We  can  be  sheltered  on  the  north  side  of  that  cliff," 

pointing. 

■•  All  right :  come  on.  then." 

Father  started,  and  I  followed.  The  rain  had  ceased. 
The  wind  blew  us  on.  In  ten  minutes  we  were  standing 
safely  under  the  big  sand  cliff.  Father  pulled  out  his  pipe 
again.     This   time  he  filled  and  lighted  it. 

';I  hope  nothing  has  happened,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  something's  happened,"  he  answered.  "It's 
something  that  happens  to  most  girls  some  time  or  other," 
and  now  he  winked.  What  in  the  world  did  he  mean  ?  I 
decided  that  he  would  tell  in  good  time.  I  waited  in 
silence.  "I  s'pose  you've  kinder  understood  young  Blake 
all  this  time,  ain't  ye?"  he  asked. 

"Understood  him  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  ain't  no  fool,  ye  know.  Of  course,  you  knew 
he  wanted  to  marry  you." 

■•  Xo  :  I  didn't  know  it." 

Father  chuckled  as  if  this  were  a  girlish  denial.     I  felt 


152  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  blood  rising  to  my  head.  And  in  mymind  was  the  per- 
plexing question  as  to  why  I  seemed  to  feel  differently  to 
father  from  the  way  I  used  to  feel.  There  was  some  re- 
morse in  this  question. 

"  Course,  you  want  to  say  that ;  that's  all  right,  you  know," 
was  the  response.  "  Wall,  Bid's  been  comin'  over  a  good 
deal,  'n'  smokin'  with  me  on  the  back  stoop  there ;  'n'  so 
finally  he  told  me  how  "twas  with  him.  He  said  he  never 
got  screwed  up  to  speakin'  to  you.  He  was  in  a  great  state, 
now,  I  can  tell  you ;  V  you  goin'  off  's  you  be,  'n'  so  on. 
You  c'n  imagine  all  that.  The  long  V  short  is,  he  thought 
I'd  better  come  'n'  see  you  'fore  you  went  still  further  away. 
So  here  I  be." 

"Bidwell  needn't  have  sent  you,  father,"  I  said,  with 
rather  a  high  air. 

"Why  not?" 

Father's  tone  was  short. 

"  Because  I  sha'n't  marry  him." 

"Shan't  you?" 

This  question  was  followed  by  a  slight  laugh,  different 
from  father's  ordinary  laugh. 

"  No." 

Father  leaned  back  against  the  cliff,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets.     He  was  looking  at  me  with  narrow  eyes. 

"  I  d'  know  how  much  of  your  mother  you've  got  in  you," 
he  said,  after  a  momentary  silence,  "  but  I  guess  we'll  have 
one  good,  square  talk.  Then  we'll  know  how  we  stand,  'n' 
what  kind  of  a  trade  we  c'n  make — 'ain't  that  so  ?" 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  You  know  the  Blakes  have  got  the  biggest  V  best  farm 
in  the  county,  V  Bid's  the  only  child.  Now  I  look  at  it  in 
this  way :  there's  nothin'  more  uncertain  under  the  canopy 
than  whether  you'll  make  a  go  of  this  singin'  business.    The 


BY    THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  153 

chances  are  you  won't.  There  can't  be  only  'bout  so  many 
big  singers,  'n'  we  can't  expect  you  to  be  one  of  'em.  If 
you  should  turn  out  one,  why,  of  course,  you  couldn't  hardly 
be  expected  to  marry  Bid.  Now,  I  should  say  'twould  be  a 
capital  plan  to  give  Bid  your  promise — you  see  that'll  be 
security,  so  to  speak.  You  c'n  fall  back  on  Bid  if  you 
don't  make  a  go,  and  if  you  do  make  a  ten  strike,  why, 
how  could  a  feller  expect  a  first-class  opery  singer  to  marry 
him  'n'  settle  down  on  a  farm  ?  I  can't  live  forever,  'n'  I 
ain't  so  well  off  's  some  folks  think  I  am." 

Father's  pipe  had  gone  out.  He  lighted  three  matches 
before  he  could  kindle  it  again.  I  watched  each  tiny  flame 
start  and  grow,  as  if  I  were  thinking  of  nothing  else.  My 
heart  was  like  lead.  How  expressive  that  old  phrase  is — 
a  heart  like  lead  ! 

"Wall,  what  do  you  say,  Billy?"  when  he  could  puff  out 
the  smoke  once  more. 

"  No,"  I  answered  again.  I  wanted  to  tell  father  that  I 
understood  the  proposition  he  had  made,  but  my  tongue 
just  then  could  only  utter  monosyllables. 

"What?" 

"No." 

Several  puffs  of  smoke,  and  then  father  remarked  in  a 
very  mild  voice  : 

"P'raps  you've  be'n  'n'  got  a  notion  for  that  singin'  feller 
— the  one  that  was  laid  up  at  Rachel  Cobb's,  'n'  that  made 
love  to  you  'fore  'em  all." 

No  answer  to  this. 

"Have  you?"  he  insisted,  still  in  the  mildest  possible 
way.  "  Gals  '11  do  awful  queer  things  sometimes.  I  don't 
expect  you  to  be  more  nor  less  than  a  gal,  nohow,  Billy. 
Have  you  ?" 

"No." 


ICJ4  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Father's  eyes,  still  narrowed,  were  on  me.  I  did  not 
blush  in  the  least  as  I  answered. 

"  All  right.  I  did  hope  you  wouldn't  be  such  a  thunder- 
in'  fool  's  that.  That  feller  didn't  mean  nothin'.  I  guess 
he  was  rehearsing." 

"  Yes,"  I  responded  promptly,  "  he  was  rehearsing." 

"You  knew  it,  then  ?"  exclaimed  father,  gazing  still  more 
keenly  at  me. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  knew  it." 

"  Oh,  by  gum  !  That's  a  good  joke  on  Rachel  Cobb, 
ain't  it  ?     She's  be'n  peddlin'  the  story  all  over  creation." 

I  winced  inwardly,  but  I  made  no  reply  to  this  remark. 

"  I  guess  we  c'n  come  to  an  understandin'  all  right  now, 
Billy,"  father  went  on  with  his  most  comfortable  manner. 
"  You  jest  git  engaged  to  Bid.  You'll  be  allfired  glad  of 
it  when  you  find  you  can't  be  a  first-class  singer.  He's  a 
real  good  feller.  Of  course  he  'ain't  had  advantages ;  I 
s'pose  he  don't  talk  no  better  grammar  V  I  do.  But  he'll 
make  a  prime  husband.  Now  you  say  yes,  'n'  I'll  go  back 
'n'  tell  him,  'n'  he'll  come  right  down  to  see  you  him- 
self." 

"  Will  he  ?" 

But  what  did  I  care  for  the  fact  that  he  had  let  father 
come  on  such  an  errand  ? 

"  You  bet  he  will.     Wall,  it's  all  settled,  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Father  seemed  to  have  the  power  to  wellnigh  take  away 
my  speech  just  now. 

"  That's  a  good  Billy.  I  knew  she  was  father's  own 
girl." 

Here  he  kissed  my  cheek.  "  Now  I  guess  I  better  take 
the  next  train  back."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  As  he 
raised  his  eyes  from  the  timepiece  I  suppose  something  in 


BY   THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  1 55 

my  face  made   his  gaze   remain   on   me.     I   made    an   ex- 
ertion. 

"  It's  all  settled/'  I  repeated,  "  but  not  in  the  way  you 
wish." 

"  Eh  ?" 

'■  Xot  in  the  way  you  wish,''  raising  my  voice  even  more 
than  was  necessary.  ''I'm  not  going  to  engage  myself  to 
Bid  Blake,  thinking  I'll  keep  my  word  if  I  fail  in  my  pro- 
fession, and  that  I  won't  keep  it  if  I  succeed." 

"What?" 

I  went  over  my  sentence  again,  word  for  word. 

"  That's  the  way  you  look  at  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"You  needn't  git  up  any  high-minded  tantrums  about 
that,"  responded  father,  still  in  his  most  calm  way.  Then, 
as  if  to  himself.  "  I  always  did  kind  of  suspect  she  had 
something  of  her  mother  in  her,  though  she  'ain't  shown 
it  much."  He  turned  and  looked  at  the  water  as  if  he 
saw  it  for  the  first  time.  With  his  face  thus  averted,  he 
went  on  : 

"  You  jest  engage  yourself  to  Bid,  'n1  then  you  'n'  he 
can  manage"  as  you  please.  I  didn't  know  's  you  was 
going  to  take  my  little  plan  so  solemn  like.  I  didn't  mean 
nothin'  out  of  the  way." 

"No,"  I  answered,  "  I  won't  engage  myself  to  him." 

"Don't  you  like  him  ?" 

"Very  much  indeed." 

"Then  what  you  kickin'  against?"  I  could  not  reply 
to  this. 

Father  was  gazing  at  me  now,  and  I  thought  there  was 
contempt  in  his  expression.  There  was  a  strange  feeling 
rising  in  my  heart. 

"  It's  that  singer  feller,  after  all !" 


156  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

And  then  father  swore  emphatically,  and  I  stood  silent 
and  drooping  until  there  was  a  chance  for  me  to  say  : 

"  I  told  you  no." 

"  What  if  you  did  ?  But  I  guess  we  won't  talk  any  more. 
I  must  try  to  ketch  my  train  so  's  to  git  back  in  time  for 
the  chores  to-night.     Good-bye,  Billy!" 

He  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  and  started  to  walk  up 
to  the  road.  I  watched  him,  his  big  boot-tops  flapping, 
his  burly  frame  bent  over  to  meet  the  wind.  Suddenly, 
without  knowing  that  I  was  going  to  do  so,  I  called : 

"  Father  !     Father  !" 

He  did  not  turn.  I  suppose  the  noise  of  the  wind 
drowned  my  voice.  I  started  to  run  after  him.  But  I  only 
ran  a  few  yards  before  I  stopped.  I  returned  slowly  to  the 
shelter  of  the  cliff. 

I  said,  aloud,  "  I  feel  horribly  about  father." 

In  a  few  moments  I  left  the  shelter ;  I  wanted  to  be  out 
in  the  wind  ;  it  was  good  to  feel  it  striking  me  hard  blows. 
Stoutly  I  climbed  up  on  the  grassy  side  of  the  cliff,  feeling 
like  a  pygmy  twisted  about  by  a  giant. 

Youth  is  a  strange  phase  —  nay,  a  strange  thing  —  for 
sometimes  it  seems  something  tangible.  I  was  not  think- 
ing now  of  father  or  Bidwell,  or  even  of  singing,  but  only 
of  that  poem  of  Elizabeth  Stoddard's  which  Miss  Runci- 
man  had  read  to  us  two  girls  after  we  came  to  this  place. 

Inexplicably  at  this  moment  the  lines  seemed  to  have 
some  definite  mission  in  my  life. 

Was  it  this  very  headland  upon  which  the  poet  stood  ? 

"What  is  my  recompense  upon  this  soil, 
For  other  paths  are  mine  if  I  go  hence, 
Still  must  I  make  this  mystery  my  quest  ? 
For  here  or  there,  I  think,  one  sways  my  will. 

■H-  *  rr  -?r  ^C  ><S 


BY   THE    UNQUENCHABLE    SEA  157 

Here,  but  the  wiry  grass  and  sorrel  beds, 

The  gaping  edges  of  the  sand  ravines, 

Whose  shifting  sides  are  tufted  with  dull  herbs, 

Drooping  above  a  brook,  that  sluggish  creeps 

Down  to  the  whispering  rushes  in  the  marsh. 

And  this  is  all,  until- 1  reach  the  cliff, 

And  on  the  headland's  verge  I  stand,  enthralled 

Before  the  gulf  of  the  unquenchable  sea — 

The  sea,  inexorable  in  its  might, 

Circling  the  pebbly  beach  with  limpid  tides, 

Storming  in  bays  whose  margins  fade  in  mist." 

I  said  aloud,  ''  The  unquenchable  sea  !"  and  then  some- 
thing pulled  my  cloak  from  behind  —  something  that  was 
not  the  wind. 

There  was  Bathsheba. 

"  Well,  I  must  say/'  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly,  "  that  I 
didn't  think  you  were  quite  such  a  donkey  as  to  come  out 
on  this  cliff  and  quote  poetry  in  a  gale  like  this  !  And 
where's  the  milk  for  breakfast  ?'' 

"  Breakfast !"  I  cried,  irritably,  "  who  supposed  we  should 
have  breakfast  for  two  hours  yet  ?" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  responded  Bashy,  putting  a  hand 
on  each  side  of  her  mouth  and  shouting.  "  Aunt  Nora  sent 
me  to  find  you — great  call  for  Billy  Armstrong — audience 
won't  leave — Billy  !  Billy  Armstrong  !  Bouquets  thrown  on 
the  stage.  And  —  listen!  There's  a  man  come!  Man 
with  a  diamond  ring — and  eyes  !" 

Having  shouted  this  the  girl  turned  and  ran,  or  rather 
was  blown,  down  the  cliff.     And  I  followed. 


X 

A    STRANGER 

The  man  with  the  diamond  ring  —  and  the  eyes  —  was 
sitting  with  Miss  Runciman  when  we  entered  the  house 
carriage.  The  lady  was  at  the  table  stirring  something  in 
the  chafing-dish  which  was  over  its  lamp. 

It  was  a  very  small  room,  and  this  new-comer  appeared 
to  fill  it. 

"  Here  she  is  !"  said  Miss  Runciman,  glancing  at  me. 

Mr.  Maverick  rose. 

"What,  you?"  he  exclaimed.  Our  hostess  looked  again 
at  me,  this  time  keenly,  but  she  said  nothing. 

Mr.  Maverick  immediately  and  deferentially  explained 
how  we  had  met  before.  Bathsheba  stood  by  me  listening  ; 
then  she  poked  her  elbow  at  me.  When  the  gentleman  had 
finished,  which  he  did  in  a  very  few  words,  Bashy  gave  him 
this  information  : 

"She  doesn't  flat,  Mr.  Maverick;  but  I  do,  at  present; 
though  I'm  expecting  to  stop  it." 

Mr.  Maverick  smiled  and  stroked  his  mustache.  He  did 
not  seem  at  all  like  a  man  who  underestimated  himself. 
Bathsheba  that  day  gave  him  the  name  of  Ahasuerus,  and 
generally  called  him  thus  thereafter.  As  he  stroked  his 
mustache  his  diamond  glittered.  It  sent  a  ray  of  light 
straight  into  my  eyes. 

"  I  flat  myself  sometimes,"  he  said,  much  as  if  he  had 


A    STRANGER  159 

affirmed  that  he  was  human,  though  we  might  have  thought 
him  more  than  human. 

"  You  sing,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

He  smiled  and  Miss  Runciman  smiled.     I  felt  annoyed. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "sometimes.*' 

"  He  is  to  be  our  new  tenor,"  said  Miss  Runciman  ;  and 
Bashy  giggled.     But  how  was  I  to  know  he  was  a  tenor? 

"  Yes,''  said  the  new-comer  again,  and  still  looking  at  me 
with  a  slight  smile,  he  continued:  ""Miss  Runciman  has 
done  me  the  honor  to  send  for  me.  I've  been  a  singer  ever 
since  I  was  born,  it  seems  to  me." 

"Oh!" 

This  was  all  I  could  think  of  to  say,  and  I  had  an  awk- 
ward consciousness  that  I  seemed  stupid,  and  also  a  still 
keener  feeling  that  I  did  not  wish  to  seem  so. 

There  was  very  little  more  holiday  for  us.  In  a  week  the 
house  carriage  was  put  up  in  a  barn,  one  of  the  horses  was 
sold,  but  the  gray  was  kept  for  its  owner  to  ride  when  she 
wished.  We  went  to  a  town  within  a  few  miles  of  New 
York  city,  and  then  began  harder  work  for  me  than  I  had 
ever  imagined. 

When  we  broke  up  I  asked  Miss  Runciman  if  I  might  go 
and  see  my  mother.  She  was  at  home,  and  had  taken 
grandmother  there  for  the  winter.  I  had  heard  this  the 
day  before. 

Miss  Runciman  was  sitting  with  a  guitar  on  her  lap, 
sin^ins  in  a  half-voice  from  a  sheet  of  music  before  her. 
She  glanced  up.  There  was  a  marked  coldness  in  her 
eyes. 

"  No,"  she  answered  shortly.     She  had  never  spoken  like 
this  before,  and  I  had  a  sensation  as  of  having  been  struck. 
I  turned  away.     She  put  her  guitar  down  and  called  : 
"Billy!" 


l6o  IN    THE    FIRST   PERSON 

She  was  smiling  now,  but  there"  was  a  glitter  in  her 
smile. 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  see  your  mother  at  present,"  she 
went  on.  "  I  want  your  heart  and  soul,  and  all  you  are. 
You  are  to  work  like  a  horse,  an  ox,  a  slave,  all  winter. 
Do  you  shrink  ?" 

"Not  from  work." 

"  From  what,  then  ?" 

"  I  don't  know — from  hardening,  I  think." 

The  woman  laughed. 

"  You  need  not  shrink  from  that  process — welcome  it." 

We  were  in  a  quiet  house,  and  if  any  one  came  to  see 
Miss  Runciman  she  declined  the  interview.  We  saner,  and 
sang,  and  sang,  or  rather  I  did,  and  the  rest  more  desultorily. 
I  sang  in  my  dreams  as  well  as  in  my  waking  hours.  I  grew 
thin  and  excited,  but  I  was  well.  I  could  not  write  home 
to  mother,  save  little  non-committal  notes  that  must  have 
been  very  unsatisfactory.  But  mother  tried  to  write  me  all 
the  news.  I  knew  how  she  must  labor  over  those  epistles. 
She  wrote  that  Bidwell  Blake  came  very  often  and  smoked 
with  father.  She  said  she  thought  father  wasn't  as  well  as 
usual ;  anyway,  his  spirits  were  lower ;  but  she  supposed 
he  missed  his  Bill)-.     He  never  sent  me  any  word. 

Mr.  Maverick,  the  new  tenor,  was  not  with  us.  Bath- 
sheba  informed  me  that  he  did  not  need  to  study  and  prac- 
tise, because  he  knew  everything  already.  In  the  first 
weeks  in  December,  after  much  sending  and  receiving  of 
letters,  Miss  Runciman  and  Bashy  went  away.  They  went 
South  to  begin  their  "season."  I  was  left  with  a  house- 
keeper and  a  great  many  directions,  and  twice  a  week  a 
teacher  was  coming  from  New  York  to  instruct  me. 

"  You'll  find  out  what  stuff  you're  made  of  now,"  Miss 
Runciman  remarked  to  me  as  she  informed  me  of  her  plan. 


A    STRANGER  jftj 

I  used  to  wonder  in  the  days  following  of  what  stuff  I  was 
made.  Left  to  myself,  I  returned  to  my  country-bred  cus- 
toms and  rose  early.  I  sat  at  the  piano  and  sang  for  an 
hour :  then  I  breakfasted ;  after  breakfast  I  went  to  walk, 
and  then  I  took  my  exercises  in  breathing. 

Though  the  place  was  but  an  hour  from  New  York,  it 
was  solitary,  and  seemed  remote,  as  it  was  not  on  the  way 
to  any  large  town.  Nearly  all  the  people  I  saw  were  market 
gardeners  or  their  families.  These  carts,  loaded  with 
winter  vegetables,  sometimes  went  slowly  along  over  the 
narrow,  yellow  roads,  which  were  muddy  if  it  were  mild,  or 
frozen  in  deep  ruts  and  "hubbies''  if  it  were  cold. 

It  was  not  interesting  to  walk  anywhere,  but  I  persisted ; 
I  walked  in  the  forenoon  and  in  the  afternoon,  and  gener- 
ally I  went  to  the  post-office,  which  was  in  the  railroad  sta- 
tion one  mile  away.  I  was  always  looking  for  a  letter  from 
mother,  and  I  usually  received  one  on  Tuesday  after- 
noon. So,  if  I  missed  going  any  day  to  the  post-office,  it 
would  not  be  on  a  Tuesday. 

I  used  to  have  curious  fancies  in  those  days  ;  the  strangest 
among  them  was  the  fancy  that  I  was  somebody  else ;  not 
at  all  the  Billy  Armstrong  who  went  to  ML  Holyoke  Semi- 
nary and  who  later  made  barrel -stave  hammocks  on  the 
home  farm  and  dreamed  hours  away  in  them. 

Though  I  knew  I  was  not  that  girl,  I  had  not  in  the 
least  decided  who  I  was.  And  I  studied  and  sang  and 
sang  and  studied,  and  solfeggio  and  arpeggio  and  high 
quick  notes  and  low  slow  notes  were  in  my  mind  dreaming 
or  waking.  It  was  not  an  unhappy  time.  But  some  days 
would  be  colorless,  days  when  my  work  was  drudgery, 
though  I  loved  my  work  with  enthusiasm.  I  would  have 
hours  of  grieving  because  father  sent  me  no  word.  I  won- 
dered if  he  were  really  angry  with  me.     I  began  to  think 


l62  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

that  I  had  not  known  much  about  him.  I  recall  with  what 
childish  delight  I  used  to  measure  my  chest  and  find  how 
my  singing  and  breathing  had  increased  its  size.  My  routine 
was  like  the  routine  of  machinery,  but  I  had  a  very  un- 
machine-like  enthusiasm. 

Miss  Runciman  did  not  write  to  me  save  once,  and  then 
it  was  merely  to  tell  me  to  learn  the  opera  of  Trovatore 
as  best  I  could,  and  to  consult  my  teacher  when  I  was  un- 
certain. When  I  did  first  consult  him  he  looked  at  me 
queerly,  and  permitted  himself  to  say  that  Miss  Runciman 
had  curious  notions.  He  never  praised  me  in  the  least ; 
and  he  always  listened  as  if  he  could  bear  it  because  he 
was  resolved  to  bear  it.  Two  or  three  times  after  I  had 
sung  to  him  he  remarked  :  "Well,  Miss  Armstrong,  that  was 
not  as  execrable  as  it  might  have  been."  But  he  took  no 
end  of  pains  with  me. 

Do  you  ask  what  had  become  of  Vane  Hildreth  in  these 
months  ?  I  did  not  know.  I  used  to  wonder,  when  I  had 
time,  where  he  was,  and  how  he  was.  Bathsheba,  from 
New  Orleans  or  Mobile,  or  some  other  city,  would  some- 
times send  me  a  square  envelope  with  a  square  card  with- 
in, on  which  would  be  scrawled  a  few  lines  : 

"Jolly  time  here — house  packed — Aunt  Nora  in  splendid  feather — 
and  even  poor  I  had  an  enormous  bouquet.  Guess  I  didn't  flat  much. 
Mr.  Maverick  is  perfectly  magnificent  to  sing  with — he  just  carries  one 
right  along.      Hope  you  are  gay.     Ta-ta.  BASHY." 

But  Bashy  never  wrote  of  her  brother.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  forgotten  him.  Still,  she  wrote  me  such  scraps  of  notes 
that  it  was  not  strange  that  she  did  not  mention  him. 

It  was  one  bitter  cold  day  in  January  that  I  was  hurrying 
along  the  lonesome  road  to  the  post-office.  The  snow 
creaked  beneath  my  feet.     But  I  was  warm.     The  sky  was 


A    STRANGER  I 63 

gray  —  one   smooth  gray,  out  of  which   more  snow  would 
surely  come. 

"  Be  sure  and  get  back  before  it  storms,"  Mrs.  Ridge,  the 
housekeeper,  had  called  after  me. 

With  rubber  boots,  a  thick  jacket,  and  a  fur  cap  one  cares 
little  whether  it  storms  or  not.  I  had  just  reached  the  rail- 
road when  the  mail -train  from  New  York  came  sliding 
almost  noiselessly  along  the  track.  I  paused  for  it  to  stop 
at  the  bit  of  a  station  and  go  on.  It  barely  paused,  then 
started  off.  I  ran  across  the  track  and  into  the  building 
to  wait  until  the  mail  was  assorted  ;  it  would  not  be  many 
minutes,  for  very  few  letters  came  here.  I  noticed  one 
passenger— only 'one.  He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  slight 
stoop  in  his  shoulders,  closely  cropped  gray  hair,  and  a 
closely  shaven  face.  Perhaps  I  noticed  him  more  par- 
ticularly because,  though  the  air  was  so  biting  cold,  he 
wore  no  overcoat.  Having  seen  this,  I  further  saw  that 
his  clothes,  brown  in  color,  looked  quaint  and  somewhat 
old-fashioned,  as  if  they  were  a  suit  that  had  been  long 
laid  aside  and  now  taken  out  and  donned. 

All  this  as  I  passed  by  him  into  the  station.  Then  I  for- 
got him  in  watching  the  postmaster  take  out  the  letters. 
There  was  nothing  for  me  ;  no,  absolutely  nothing,  though 
this  was  a  Tuesday,  and  I  had  expected  to  hear  from 
mother.  When  I  went  out  the  tall  man  was  standing  by  the 
red-hot  cylinder  stove,  his  hands  spread  over  it. 

I  hastened  on  up  the  slight  acclivity  from  the  track,  the 
sharp  wind  in  my  face  and  cutting  like  a  knife.  The  mile 
I  was  to  traverse  looked  rather  long  to  me  now.  I  turned 
up  my  jacket  collar  and  bent  my  head.  I  wished  mother 
had  written.  Surely,  if  she  were  ill,  Aunt  Lowizy  would 
send  me  word. 

I  hurried  ;  I  thought  of  the  warm  room  that  awaited  me. 


j64  in  the  first  person 

Half  of  the  distance  was  traversed  when  I  felt  an  impera- 
tive wish  to  look  behind  me.  Not  that  I  heard  anything. 
The  wind  carried  all  sound  from  behind  farther  away.  I 
turned,  and  was  startled  to  see,  a  few  rods  in  the  rear,  the 
man  who  had  just  alighted  from  the  mail -train.  His  tall, 
emaciated  figure  looked  taller  and  longer  against  the  snow. 
His  shoulders  were  drawn  together  in  a  pitiable  manner, 
his  narrow  velvet  coat  collar  was  pulled  as  high  as  possible. 

I  did  not  linger  to  gaze.  It  was  an  absolutely  solitary 
road  for  the  most  part — acres  of  market-gardens  lined  the 
way,  but  there  were  few  houses,  and  those  were  set  in  back 
some  distance.  I  was  not  easily  alarmed;  I  had  never 
dreamed  of  anything  to  alarm  me  in  my  walks,  though  Mrs. 
Ridsre  sometimes  said  that  she  did  not  like  to  be  so  near 
New  York  and  yet  in  the  country ;  she  prophesied  that 
some  dreadful  creatures  would  eventually  stray  out  our  way. 

Perhaps  this  was  one  of  them.  I  glanced  back  again. 
Indeed,  I  was  now  bewitched  to  look  back.  The  man  was 
always  coming  on  in  just  that  manner.  He  did  not  appear 
to  see  me,  although  of  course  he  did  see  me.  And  I  soon 
began  to  fancy  that  he  was  gaining  on  me.  Yes,  he  was 
gaining.  I  hurried  faster  than  before.  I  glanced  behind  ; 
he  was  hurrying  faster,  too,  and  still  he  did  not  appear  to 
see  me.  At  this  I  slackened  my  pace.  I  felt  that  it  would 
be  better  to  let  him  overtake  me  than  to  go  on  like  this. 
And  I  was  rather  ashamed  at  my  lack  of  courage.  Why 
should  I  be  afraid?  This  man  looked  forlorn,  but  not 
wicked.  That  is,  his  forlornness  was  certainly  his  most 
visible  attribute  just  now. 

I  will  confess  that  my  heart  was  beating  up  in  my  throat 
as  I  heard  the  snow  creak  nearer  and  nearer.  In  another 
moment  the  stranger  had  ranged  up  alongside  and  was 
fingering  his  hat  brim  with  his  blue,  bare  fingers. 


A    STRANGER  165 

"  I  hope  you'll  pardon  me,  miss,"  he  said,  huskily,  as  if 
the  cold  took  away  his  voice,  "but  the  man  down  at  the 
station  told  me  that  if  I  followed  you  I  should  find  the 
place  I'm  after." 

Having  fingered  his  hat  brim  by  way  of  respect,  he  hur- 
riedly thrust  his  hand  back  into  his  trousers  pocket. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked.  He  really  did  not 
look  like  a  person  to  be  afraid  of.  He  was  walking  by  me 
now,  save  that  he  kept,  respectfully,  somewhat  behind. 

"  I'm  looking  for  the  old  Holloway  farm-house,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"  The  Holloway  house  !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes." 

He  came  up  alongside  again  and  gazed  at  me  out  of  red- 
rimmed,  faded  eyes  of  a  green  gray  color.  They  did  not 
seem  to  be  bad  eyes,  though  there  was  something  a  little  pe- 
culiar about  them,  almost  as  if  they  were  veiled  in  some  way. 

He  dropped  back,  saying  as  he  did  so  : 

"  I've  been  there  before  ;  but  this  railway  wasn't  here 
then,  so  I  was  kind  of  turned  round  in  my  mind.  I  didn't 
come  to  it  from  here.  It  was  all  woods  here.  I  was  a 
young  man,  then,  yes — a  young  man." 

We  went  on  in  silence  for  some  time.  The  place  where 
I  was  living  was  called  the  old  Holloway  house,  from  the 
name  of  the  family  who  had  put  up  the  building.  I  imme- 
diately thought  that  the  man  was  on  his  way  to  see  Mrs. 
Ridge.  He  must  be  going  to  see  her,  since  it  was  certain 
he  was  not  my  visitor. 

As  we  approached  I  thought  he  grew  agitated.  Though 
I  could  not  see  him  I  was  sure  he  was  agitated. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  light  touch  on  my  arm.  The  tips  of 
his  finders  rested  on  my  coat  sleeve.  I  looked  around  at 
the  man.     His  blue  lips  were  trembling. 


l66  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"You  see  I'm  weak,  and — and  hungry,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 
"  I  hate  to  have  her  see  me  this  way.     I  hate  it !" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  with  a  kind  of  feeble  violence. 

"  I  want  to  be  strong,  and  well,  and  prosperous,  when  I 
see  her.     Prosperous  !" 

He  glanced  down  at  his  shabby  figure,  and  repeated  the 
word  "  prosperous  !"  in  an  indescribably  bitter  tone. 

"But  I  had  to  come,  anyway." 

I  had  nothing  to  say.  I  began  to  walk  on  again.  I  was 
getting  very  nervous,  having  this  person  just  behind  me  in 
this  way.  I  had  never  suspected  the  slightest  mystery  in 
connection  with  Mrs.  Ridge,  who  was  a  middle-aged,  pro- 
saic woman. 

When  we  had  approached  still  nearer  to  the  house  the 
man  came  closer  again.  I  saw  that  his  eyes  were  wan- 
dering eagerly,  and  yet  fearfully,  over  the  front  of  the 
building. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  quaveringly,  "  that  I  should  have  a 
little  more  courage  if  I  were  not  so  weak  from  hunger." 
He  looked  at  me  appealingly.  "  You  see,  I  haven't  had  a 
bit  to  eat  since  my  last  meal — there.  I  only  had  money 
enough  to  pay  my  fare  here — or  only  a  dime  over.  I  didn't 
know  just  what  the  fare  was,  and  I  was  so  afraid  I  shouldn't 
have  enough.  I  couldn't  have  borne  that — no,  I  don't  think 
I  could,  anyways,  have  borne  that.  If  I  hadn't  been  weak 
I  could  have  walked  all  the  way.  But  I  didn't  dare  to 
risk  it." 

He  was  evidently  impelled  to  talk,  and  all  the  time  he 
was  speaking  his  eyes  were  wandering  over  the  house.  He 
had  been  eager  in  his  walk,  but  now  he  slackened  his  pace 
as  if  he  dreaded  something.  He  turned  weakly  and  appeal- 
ingly to  me.  From  the  time  he  had  begun  to  talk  I  had  for- 
gotten all  thought  of  fear. 


A    STRANGER  167 

"No,"  with  puerile  repetition,  "I  didn't  dare  to  risk 
that."' 

He  stopped  and  leaned  against  a  post  of  the  fence.  The 
icy  wind  now  blew  a  few  flakes  of  snow  that  swirled  and 
swirled  about  without  seeming  to  fall  anywhere.  Two 
snowbirds  came  down  into  the  yard  and  pecked  at  the 
ground. 

"We  cannot  stay  here/'  I  said  :  and  as  I  spoke  I  resolved 
to  ask  him  into  the  house.  I  was  hoping  that  Mrs.  Ridge 
would  see  us,  recognize  him,  and  come  to  the  door.  She 
did  see  us,  and  the  door  opened.  She  had  a  broom  in  her 
hand,  and  her  manner  was  as  if  this  article  were  a  weapon 
of  defence. 

"Miss  Armstrong/1  she  called  out,  ;'come  right  in  this 
minute.  You  needn't  stay  out  in  this  cold  talking  to 
tramps." 

I  took  a  step  forward. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  "don't  you  know  him?"' 

"Know  him?  No;  I  guess  I  don't.  You'll  ruin  your 
voice  if  you  keep  standing  there." 

I  took  another  step. 

"  I'm  going  to  ask  him  in,  I  announced  boldly. 

Airs.  Ridge  raised  her  broom  a  little. 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  No  ;  but  I'm  going  to  ask  him  in,"  I  repeated. 

I  said  this  so  resolutely  that  Airs.  Ridge  lowered  her 
weapon.     But  she  remarked  : 

"  I  s'pose  he's  a  burglar.  You've  got  to  be  respon- 
sible." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  I  noticed  that  the 
stranger  paid  little  heed  to  it ;  his  eyes  were  still  darting 
from  window  to  window,  fearfully  and  hopefully.  I  now 
informed  the  man  that  he  must  come  into  the  house.     He 


^8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

bent  his  head  and  humbly  followed  me  up  the  path.  When 
we  were  inside  the  door  he  whispered  quickly : 

"  Do  give  me  a  morsel  to  eat  before  I  see  her  !  and  a 
cup  of  coffee — for  God's  sake,  a  cup  of  coffee  !" 

I  led  him  into  the  kitchen.  By  this  time  I  had  almost 
decided  that  he  was  not  quite  sane,  and  I  was  trying  to 
think  what  we  two  women  must  do.  I  was  annoyed  that 
Mrs.  Ridge  had  made  me  responsible.  What  if  he  were  a 
burglar  come  to  spy  out  the  land  ?  But  it  was  a  poor  place 
for  thieves  if  they  expected  much  booty. 

I  moved  a  chair  to  the  kitchen  table  and  he  sat  clown 
in  it.  Mrs.  Ridge  resumed  her  seat  by  the  window  and 
pretended  to  go  on  with  the  paring  of  some  apples.  I 
brought  out  cold  meat  and  bread  and  put  them  before  him. 
He  began  to  eat  hurriedly,  ravenously;  but  at  the  same 
time  it  was  evident  that  he  was  trying  in  some  measure  to 
control  the  savage  manifestation  of  the  beast  of  hunger 
within  him. 

I  was  sure  that  he  wanted  to  claw  and  tear  and  devour. 
His  face  flushed  as  he  made  the  attempt  to  eat  like  a  gen- 
tleman. I  brewed  some  coffee  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
grew  more  and  more  sorry  for  him.  As  I  passed  near  Mrs. 
Ridge  she  caught  hold  of  my  skirt. 

"  For  mercy's  sake !"  she  whispered,  "  where  does  he 
come  from,  that  he's  starved  like  this  ?" 

I  shook  my  head.  In  a  few  moments  I  set  the  coffee 
also  on  the  table.  He  clashed  the  cream  into  it,  and  then 
drank  feverishly.  Now,  as  his  hunger  was  somewhat  ap- 
peased, he  glanced  at  me  and  said,  deprecatingly  : 

"  It's  so  hard  not  to  be  just  an  animal." 

Then  his  eyes  turned  to  the  door.  He  made  a  move- 
ment as  if  to  rise,  while  his  flushed  face  paled. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  one,11  he  said. 


A    STRANGER  I 69 

"No,"  I  responded.  I  could  not  explain  to  myself  why 
I  should  feel  somehow  drawn  to  this  poor  wretch,  who 
showed  so  plainly  that  he  was  once  a  gentleman  and  still 
wished  to  be  one.  And  why  should  he  expect  to  see  some 
one  here  ? 

The  next  moment  the  stranger  had  risen  from  the  table. 

''I  can't  tell  you  how  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  and  he 
bowed  to  both  of  us,  infusing  into  the  salutation  a  lovely 
deference. 

"I  beg  you  will  let  me  wait  here  a  little,"  he  continued, 
looking  at  me. 

11  You'd  better  have  him  into  the  sitting-room,  Miss  Arm- 
strong." 

I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Ridge  spoke  in  a  milder  tone.  That 
bow  had  had  its  effect  upon  her  as  well  as  upon  me.  "  You 
can  stay  with  him,"'  she  added. 

So  I  took  the  stranger  into  the  room,  which  was  littered 
with  sheets  of  music  and  music- books.  A  piano  was  in 
one  corner;  a  banjo  lay  on  a  chair,  a  guitar  on  the  table. 
There  were  various  old-fashioned  pictures  on  the  walls, 
''Washington  Crossing  the  Delaware,"  "The  Surrender  of 
Cornwallis,"  and  the  like  of  them.  At  the  end  of  the  room 
was  a  very  striking  portrait  in  oil  of  Miss  Runciman.  This 
canvas  had  been  sent  here  because,  as  the  lady  had  ex- 
plained, she  had  just  now  no  better  place  for  it.  It  repre- 
sented her  as  standing,  head  uplifted,  the  pose  full  of  regal 
life,  the  eyes  dominating  you  the  moment  you  met  them. 
And  yet  the  face  had  the  winning  softness  of  a  coming 
smile  upon  it.  It  was  Miss  Runciman  at  her  best,  and  her 
best  was  something  quite  indescribable. 

The  strange  man  advanced  slowly  into  the  room.  As  I 
looked  at  him  I  wondered  again  that  I  should  ever  have 
feared  him  in  the  least.     His  face,  now  that  the  fierceness 


170  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

of  hunger  was  gone  from  it,  was  gentle  and  refined,  and 
in  some  way  appealing.  But  there  was  something  of  shame 
and  deprecation  in  his  bearing  which  I  accounted  for  by 
his  poverty  and  his  being  obliged  to  beg. 

I  saw  his  eyes  go  from  one  thing  to  another  in  the  room. 

"  Music — always  music  !"  he  muttered.  He  turned  to  me 
and  asked,  quickly,  "  Do  you  sing  ?*' 

"I  am  learning,"  I  answered. 

"  God  forbid  !"  he  cried  ;  then  instantly  and  humbly,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  ;  a  beautiful  voice  is  a  gift  from  Heaven  !" 

With  every  moment  I  was  becoming  more  and  more 
interested  and  curious.  He  walked  farther  into  the 
big  room,  that  looked  quaint  by  reason  of  its  low  ceil- 
ing and  large  beam  running  along  it.  Now,  right  be- 
fore him  was  the  portrait.  He  stopped,  instantly  and 
markedly.  I  was  watching  him.  I  saw  his  hands  close 
tightly,  the  nails  growing  white.  His  profile  was  tow- 
ards me  ;  his  features  stiffened,  then  seemed  to  relax 
and  melt,  then  glow.  I  had  never  in  my  life  seen  that 
glow,  as  of  some  ineffable  emotion,  upon  any  human 
countenance.  The  sight  of  it  sent  a  thrill  through  me.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  I  ought  to  leave  the  room.  Then  I  re- 
called common-sense  and  prudence,  and  they  told  me  that 
I  did  not  know  what  this  man  might  be,  and  I  must  stay 
and  watch  him,  and  at  last  turn  him  out  into  the  storm.  It 
was  storming  now — I  saw  the  snow  drifting  past  the  win- 
dows— saw  it  even  while  I  was  watching  my  companion. 

He  walked  quickly  nearer  the  portrait  and  stood  before 
it.  I  could  not  see  his  face  now;  I  saw  only  the  tall, 
emaciated  form  with  its  bent  shoulders.  I  heard  him  mur- 
mur : 

"  Oh,  my  God  !  My  God !"  I  sat  down  quickly  by  the 
table  and  shaded  my  eyes  with  my  hand.     I  was  ashamed 


A    STRANGER  171 

for  myself  that  I  had  watched  him  so  closely.  What  did 
I  know  about  Miss  Runciman's  life?  Absolutely  nothing. 
But  I  did  know  a  little  about  her  charm  and  power,  and  I 
thought  I  could  guess  at  the  hardness  in  her.  But  perhaps 
she  was  not  hard;  perhaps  she  was  only  strong.  I  find  it 
difficult  to  place  my  impressions  of  people  and  incidents 
just  where  they  belong,  and  not  confuse  them  with  beliefs 
and  impressions  formed  later. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  the  man  stood  there  gazing  at 
the  portrait,  which  gazed  back  at  him  with  what,  merely  by 
contrast,  seemed  an  insolent  prosperity  and  happiness ;  for 
in  reality  there  was  no  insolence  in  the  pictured  face. 

At  last  I  heard  the  stranger  move,  and  I  raised  my  head. 
He  had  turned  towards  me.  Tears  were  dropping  fast 
down  his  face. 

"  Does  she  look  like  that  now  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  never  seen  her  look  just  like  that,"  I  answered. 

"  It's  older,  but  even  more  attractive,"  he  said.  "  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  ten  years — ten  horrible  years." 

He  walked  across  the  room  and  back  again.  He  still 
had  an  air  of  listening.     He  stopped  in  front  of  me. 

"I  came  to  see  her,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "Isn't  she 
here  ?" 

"No." 

"What?"  with  a  sharpness  like  a  cry. 

I  repeated  my  one  word.  The  ascetic,  worn,  and  yet 
tender  face  grew  whiter.  The  man  uttered  some  kind  of  a 
despairing  cry.  Then  he  plainly  tried  to  pull  himself  to- 
gether. 

"  I  made  sure — I  made  sure,"  he  said. 

In  a  moment  he  thrust  a  thumb  and  finger  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket  and  pulled  out  a  bit  cut  from  a  newspaper. 

"  The  paper  is  not  a  week  old,"  he  said,  "  I  knew  I  should 


1^2  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

find  her  here ;  I  never  doubted  it  an  instant.  I  thought 
God  was  willing  to  stop  my  suffering — after  ten  years." 

He  sat  down  quickly  and  leaned  his  head  forward,  cover- 
ing his  face  with  both  hands.  The  paragraph  read  thus : 
"The  celebrated  prima  donna,  Leonora  Runciman,  is  oc- 
cupying a  house  near  Wallingford  that  she  may  be  out  of 
the  way  of  disturbance.  We  learn  that  she  is  contemplat- 
ing even  greater  treats  for  music  lovers.  If  she  desires 
solitude,  the  old   Holloway  house  is — " 

Here  the  paper  had  been  torn  away. 

"  She  was  here,"  I  said;  "  this  paper  is  late  with  its  news, 
that's  why  you've  been  misled.  Haven't  you  seen — "  I 
stopped,  for  I  didn't  know  where  he  had  been. 

11  I've  seen  nothing,"  he  answered.  "  I  could  not  see 
anything." 

He  seemed  to  be  unable  to  recover  from  the  shock  of 
not  finding  Miss  Runciman.  "  No,  I  could  not  see  any- 
thing, and  I  would  not  ask.  Whom  should  I  ask  ?  I  haven't 
read  the  papers.  By  accident  I  saw  this — and  like  a  fool 
I  built  upon  it.     What  a  fool  I've  been  all  my  life  !" 

He  had  lifted  his  head  to  speak  thus.  Now  he  bent  it 
and  again  covered  his  face.  Looking  towards  him  I  saw 
beyond  him  the  snow  driving  still  more  furiously  by  the 
window,  and  the  wind  had  begun  to  shriek  about  the  chim- 
ney. 

"  It's  the  beginning  of  a  terrible  storm,"  I  exclaimed 
irrelevantly.  I  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  standing 
there  and  gazing  out,  absently  watching  the  whirl  of  snow- 
flakes  and  acutely  wondering  what  I  should  do.  How  cold 
it  was  !  Frost  figures  were  already  forming  on  the  panes 
of  glass.  Several  snow  buntings  were  gayly  disporting 
themselves  in  the  yard.  I  heard  a  sound  in  the  room,  and 
I  turned.     The  stranger  had  risen.     He  made  a  fumbling 


A    STRANGER  173 

movement,  as  if  to  button  his  coat  more  tightly  across  his 
chest,  but  he  found  it  already  buttoned. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said. 

He  went  towards  the  door ;  there  he  hesitated  ;  then  he 
came  back  and  stood  near  me.  He  reached  forward,  took 
my  hand,  and  bowed  over  it. 

"  You've  been  so  kind,"  he  said,  tremulously.  "  I  thank 
you." 

He  still  hesitated. 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  add  to  your  kindness,"  he 
continued,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  "  by  telling  me  where 
Miss  Runciman  now  is." 

I  answered  that  she  was  in  the  South,  that  I  did  not  know 
more  definitely  than  that.  She  had  planned  to  come  to 
New  York  and  Boston  in  the  middle  of  spring. 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment. 

"She  is  successful?"  he  asked. 

"  Very." 

"  She  has  taught  you  ?" 

"  For  a  while  she  taught  me." 

'•Then  you  would  be  likely  to  catch  her  mannerisms,  her 
ways.  You  have  been  so  good.  Will  you  sing  one  song  to 
me  ?     After  that  I  will  go." 

I  hesitated  ;  then  I  walked  to  the  piano  and  sat  down. 
He  followed  and  stood  near,  not  looking  at  me,  but  at  the 
portrait  on  the  wall. 

"Do  you  care  what  I  sing?"  I  asked.  "I  don't  know 
many  things.  I  can  sing  something  from  the  Trovatore. 
Miss  Runciman  has  been  particular  for  me  to  learn  that." 

"  Go  on,"  he  said,  and  there  seemed  eagerness  in  his 
manner.     I  began  and  sang: 

' '  Of  love  like  this,  how  vainly 
Do  words  attempt  expression." 


174  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Half  way  through  the  solo  I  stopped,  my  hand  striking  a 
discord  on  the  keys.  I  could  not  go  on,  for  the  man  had 
sunk  down  on  his  knees  by  a  chair ;  his  face,  covered  by 
his  hands,  was  pressed  into  the  cushion,  and  he  was  sob- 
bing openly. 

I  was  saying  to  myself,  "  What  shall  I  do  ?"  I  gazed 
helplessly  down  at  him.  But  only  for  the  briefest  space. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  more  alertness  of  action  than  he 
had  yet  shown. 

"  I  was  a  fool  to  ask  you  to  sing  !"  he  cried.  "  You  have 
her  trick  of  voice,  but  you  have  something  more.  Young 
woman,  let  me  tell  you  one  thing — go  back  home,  if  you 
have  a  home.     Go  back  to  it." 

He  left  the  room  so  suddenly  that  I  was  startled  to  find 
he  had  gone.  As  soon  as  I  could  collect  my  senses  a  little 
I  ran  to  the  kitchen,  where  I  found  Mrs.  Ridge  gazing  from 
the  window.  She  was  looking  at  the  figure  of  the  stranger. 
He  was  breasting  the  wind,  staggering,  reeling  before  its 
violence. 

"  I'm  thankful  he's  gone,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  been 
singing  to  him  ?" 

I  did  not  answer  her  question.  I  was  watching  the  man 
and  thinking  it  was  an  unkind  deed  to  let  him  go  out  in 
such  a  storm.  A  yet  stronger  blast  came  thundering  from 
the  northeast.    That  ill-clad  figure  reeled  still  more — it  fell. 

"  I  can't  bear  that !"  I  exclaimed.  "  He'll  die  out  there. 
I'm  going  after  him." 

Mrs.  Ridge  took  hold  of  my  arm. 

"  Let  somebody  else  take  him  in  now,"  she  said.  "  We've 
done  our  share.  He'll  get  to  some  place,  never  you  fear. 
But  I  shook  her  off. 

"  It's  a  cruel  thing  not  to  help  him,"  I  said. 

I  snatched  a  shawl  from  a  chair,  put  it  over  my  head,  and 


A    STRANGER  I  75 

hurried  from  the  house.  The  wind  caught  my  shawl  and 
flung  it  across  my  face.  But  I  went  blundering  on.  I 
reached  the  man  and  bent  over  him,  holding  out  my  hand 
to  him.     He  grasped  it  strongly  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  It's  my  weak  ankle  that  made  me  fall,"  he  explained. 
"  I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you.  I  shall  do  very  well  now,  I 
think." 

He  took  off  his  hat  to  me. 

"But  where  are  you  going?"  I  asked. 

"  Where  ?  Well,  I've  not  quite  made  up  my  mind.  You 
have  my  thanks,  miss." 

He  attempted  to  go  on  again.  The  wind  sprang  at  him 
fiercely.  I  saw  plainly  that  it  was  simply  impossible  for 
him  to  walk  in  this  storm,  reduced  in  strength  as  he  was.  I 
made  him  take  my  arm  and  we  started  back  towards  the 
house,  the  wind  now  blowing  us  on  so  that  we  must  hurry. 
When  we  entered  the  yard  Mrs.  Ridge  flung  open  the  door 
and  waited  for  us. 

"  I  do  wonder,"  she  said,  angrily,  "  how  you  dare  to  do 
such  a  thing,  Miss  Armstrong." 

I  made  no  answer  to  this  remark.  I  helped  the  man  to 
the  old  lounge  that  stood  in  the  kitchen.  He  laid  himself 
down  upon  it  as  one  whose  strength  is  spent.  He  closed 
his  eyes  and  hardly  moved. 

"Aren't  you  willing  to  let  him  stay  there  for  the  rest  of 
the  day?"  I  asked  of  Airs.  Ridge. 

She  replied  sulkily  that  it  wasn't  any  affair  of  hers,  and 
she  washed  her  hands  of  it.  So  he  did  stay.  The  storm 
was  the  very  worst  of  the  season  thus  far.  It  raged  all  over 
the  Northern  States  and  strewed  wrecks  on  the  coast.  It 
was  three  days  that  I  did  not  get  out  to  the  post-office,  and 
three  days  that  the  stranger  remained  beneath  the  shelter  I 
had  first  given  him.     During  that  time  he  said  very  little. 


j^6  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

He  sat  quietly  by  the  kitchen  stove  during  daylight  hours, 
and  at  night  lay  on  the  lounge. 

Once  when  I  was  alone  with  him  he  suddenly  looked  up 
at  me  and  said,  quickly  : 

"I  didn't  warn  you  against  singing  because  singing  is 
wicked,  but  because  that  life  of  praise  and  excitement  un- 
fits you  for  any  other.  It  takes  the  sweetness  out  of  calm 
days." 

He  seemed  to  make  this  explanation  as  if  it  had  been  on 
his  mind  to  do  so  as  a  matter  of  duty. 

On  the  third  day  it  cleared.  The  sun  came  out  brill- 
iantly at  noon,  shining  on  the  deep  drifts  that  lay  about 
the  house.  By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  teams  were 
breaking  open  a  pathway.  The  mercury  in  the  glass  that 
was  fastened  by  our  north  door  kept  going  down  until  in 
the  evening,  when  I  took  a  lamp  and  went  to  examine  it, 
it  registered  eighteen  degrees  below  zero.  My  hand  on  the 
latch  stung  as  if  it  were  burned. 

"  He  can't  go  away  to-night,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  Ridge,  when 
I  returned  to  the  sitting-room. 

"  I  do  wonder  what  Miss  Runciman  would  say,'1  was  her 
response  to  my  words. 

She  put  down  her  knitting,  and,  shivering,  drew  nearer 
the  great  coal  stove,  whose  sides  were  glowing  red  with 
heat.  There  was  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  outside  in  the 
road. 

"I  pity  any  one  who  has  to  drive  to-night,"  I  said. 

As  I  spoke  there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  front  door. 
Immediately  the  door  from  the  kitchen  opened.  Our  guest 
appeared  on  the  threshold.  His  face  was  colorless,  but 
eager  and  hopeful. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  come  !"  he  exclaimed. 


XI 
"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  I  am" 

The  knock  had  excited  me.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock, 
and  in  this  place  the  hour  was  late.  While  Mrs.  Ridge 
was  bustling  towards  the  door  I  recalled  that  a  train  from 
New  York  stopped  at  our  station  at  nine  every  evening.  I 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  listening.  The  stranger 
— he  had  not  told  us  his  name — had  withdrawn  into  the 
kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Ridge  had  of  late  insisted  that  he 
should  stay.  I  could  imagine  how  intently  he  was  waiting 
to  know  who  had  come.  Was  not  that  a  man  speaking  in 
the  hall  ?  Surely.  My  cheeks  grew  hot  as  I  stood  there. 
It  seemed  a  long  time  before  the  door  was  opened. 

Mrs.  Ridge  came  in  first.  There  was  a  stumping  of  blunt 
sticks  on  the  carpet,  as  of  crutches  moving  rapidly. 

"  Ah.  ha !"  exclaimed  a  triumphant  voice,  "  I've  found 
you.     I  was  bound  to  find  you." 

It  was  Vane  Hildreth,  in  a  long  fur  coat,  a  fur  cap,  with 
fur  gloves  on  his  hands,  and  crutches  under  his  arms.  He 
paused  and  pulled  off  his  gloves,  flinging  them  and  his  cap 
on  the  floor.  He  held  out  his  hands,  and  I  went  for- 
ward and  put  mine  in  them  for  the  space  of  a  second  of 
time.  The  young  man's  eyes  were  sparkling,  his  voice 
glowing. 

"They  told  me  I  was  an  idiot,  and  should  freeze  to 
death."  he  said,  trying  to  hold  my  hand  longer.     "But  I 


178  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

should  have  been  an  idiot  not  to  come.  Please  ask  me  to 
take  off  my  things  and  stop  awhile." 

Here  he  laughed  joyfully. 

"  Take  off  your  things  and  stop  awhile,"  I  repeated. 

"Thank  you;  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  In  fact,  I  mean  to 
stay  until  morning,  perhaps  longer.  You  wouldn't  turn 
even  a  dog  out  to-night — much  less  a  popular  tenor  singer." 

And  he  laughed  again.  He  seemed  bubbling  over  with 
good  spirits,  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  cheered  by  his 
presence.     Even  Mrs.  Ridge  looked  enlivened. 

"  Do  present  me  to  this  lady,"  he  said ;  and  I  performed 
the  introduction. 

I  drew  a  large  chair  up  to  the  fire.  Vane  threw  off  his 
coat  and  sat  down,  leaning  his  crutches  against  his  chair. 
He  glanced  at  them  and  then  at  me. 

"  It  was  all  because  I  was  after  the  flowers,  you  know," 
he  said  ;  and  then,  in  an  undertone,  "  and  because  the  flow- 
ers made  me  think  of  you,  Miss  Armstrong." 

I  ignored  this  last  sentence,  and  said,  briskly,  that  he 
seemed  quite  active,  and  I  hoped  that  he  wouldn't  have  to 
use  the  crutches  for  long. 

"  For  long  !  Haven't  I  been  hitching  about  upon  them 
for  a  century  already  ?  And  isn't  Maverick  singing  in  my 
place  all  this  time  ?  And  he's  a  man  to  sing  himself  into 
the  good  graces  of  anybody.  Has  he  sung  himself  into  your 
good  graces,  Billy  ?" 

He  gazed  anxiously  across  the  space  that  separated  us 
as  he  put  this  question. 

"I've  never  heard  him  sing,"  I  answered. 

"Ah!  That's  where  I'm  in  luck,  then.  I'm  going  to 
call  you  '  Billy,'  you  know.  You  are  going  to  let  me  call 
you  that,  aren't  you  ?" 

After  our  life   in  the  house  carriage  it  seemed  as  if  it 


"  YOU  VE    NO    IDEA    HOW    PERSISTENT    I    AM  179 

would  be  silly  in  me  to  insist  upon  the  Miss  Armstrong,  so 
I  answered  yes.  Vane  now  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
thrust  his  feet  out  towards  the  stove.  Mrs.  Ridge  was 
gazing  at  him  with  undisguised  admiration. 

"  By  spring  I'm  promised  that  I  may  fling  away  these 
things" — putting  a  hand  on  his  crutches. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  !"  I  exclaimed. 

He  turned  his  shining  eyes  my  way. 

••  Thank  you,  thank  you."  Then  he  looked  at  me  for 
an  instant  without  speaking.  I  turned  away  and  moved 
a  pile  of  music  from  a  chair  to  the  floor.  Were  my  hands 
trembling  ?  But  it  is  discomposing  to  have  a  person  come 
so  unexpectedly. 

'•Why  don't  you  ask  me  how  I  escaped  from  Rachel 
Cobb  ?"  he  inquired.  "  Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  pass 
my  entire  life  in  Miss  Cobb's  bedroom  that  led  out  of  the 
sitting-room  ?  Did  you  ?  Tell  me  that — and  don't  prevar- 
icate.'' 

"  I  thought  you  would  escape  as  soon  as  possible,''  I 
replied. 

This  young  man's  aspect  was  so  radiant  that  one  could 
not  very  well  help  basking  more  or  less  in  that  radiance. 
I  saw  that  Airs.  Ridge's  face  looked  brighter  than  I  had 
ever  seen  it.  She  now  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  she 
had  been  sitting  and  smiling  delightedly. 

"  You  must  need  some  coffee  and  something  to  eat," 
she  said,  "  and  I  will  go  and  get  your  supper  ready." 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Vane  ;  "  this  cold  does  whet  up 
one's  appetite." 

And  he  rose  to  open  the  door  for  Mrs.  Ridge.  He  care- 
fully closed  it  behind  her.  He  did  not  take  his  crutches  ; 
he  limped  back  quickly  and  stood  in  front  of  me. 

"  Oh,  Billy  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  half-whisper. 


jgo  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  did  not  reply  nor  look  up.  I  was  remembering  what 
I  had  thus  far  since  his  coming  forgotten,  and  that  was 
what  Miss  Runciman  had  told  me  of  her  nephew's  pro- 
clivities.    But  the  next  moment  I  said : 

"  Now  is  a  good  time  to  tell  me  how  you  left  Miss 
Cobb." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  decidedly,  "  I'm  not  going  to  talk 
of  Miss  Cobb.  Wait  until  Mrs.  Ridge  comes  back  for  that 
subject  to  be  taken  up." 

"  But  I  want  to  know  about  her,"  I  insisted. 

"  Sorry  to  disappoint  you.  Miss  Cobb  will  keep  any 
length  of  time.     Billy — " 

I  rose. 

"  Mr.  Hildreth,"  I  said. 

He  caught  hold  of  my  hand. 

"  I  think  you  are  treating  me  shamefully,"  he  remarked. 
"  Can't  you  improve  ?" 

"  No — yes,  I'm  going  to  try  to  improve,"  I  stammered. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  improvement  ?"  he  asked. 

"  This,"  withdrawing  my  hand,  "  and  this,"  sitting  down 
a  few  yards  away. 

"  But,  you  know,  Billy,  I'm  not  going  to  stand  any  such 
conduct  on  your  part.  No,  really,  I'm  not  going  to  bear 
it." 

He  followed  me.     I  hated  to  see  him  limp. 

"  Don't  you  remember  how  I  told  you,  before  witnesses," 
here  a  smile,  "  that — " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  interrupted,  hastily  ;  "  I  remember.  There's 
no  need  to  repeat — " 

"  But  I  want  to  repeat — I'm  going  to  repeat  it  this  very 
minute.     Billy,  I—" 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  wouldn't !" 

I  was  afraid. 


"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         181 

"  But  I  will.     Billy,  I  love  you  !" 

He  had  followed  me  to  my  chair,  and  he  now  bent  over 
me. 

"  I  should  like  to  kneel  down  at  your  feet,"  he  went  on. 

"Perhaps.it  is  your  custom  to  kneel  on  such  occasions, M 
I  remarked,  in  rather  a  loud  voice. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

I  repeated  my  words  with  much  distinctness,  not  falter- 
ing before  the  grieved  and  perplexed  expression  which 
came  to  his  face.     How  excellently  well  he  did  it ! 

"  Really,  you  are  admirable  !"  I  exclaimed,  and  I  laughed. 

He  drew  back  a  step.  He  became  quite  pale.  I  con- 
tinued to  smile.     He  sat  down  quickly  in  the  nearest  chair. 

"  We  are  not  rehearsing,"  he  said,  after  a  moment. 

"Not?" 

"  No — ten  thousand  times,  no  !" 

I  was  silent.  I  had  my  hands  clasped  in  my  lap.  I 
recall  that  one  of  the  predominating  wishes  in  my  mind  at 
that  moment  was  that  I  might  succeed  in  preventing  my 
fingers  from  tightly  interlacing  ;  I  wished  them  to  lie  loosely. 

Vane  rose  again.     It  did  hurt  me  to  see  him  limp. 

"  I'm  in  earnest,"  he  said,  "  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
in  earnest." 

I  looked  up  at  him  ;  then  my  eyelids  dropped.  I  would 
certainly  keep  my  hands  loosely  clasped. 

"  I  was  drawn  to  you  from  the  very  first  day  when  Aunt 
Nora  brought  you  to  the  carriage.  Oh,  I  loved  you  from 
the  first !  And  when  I  sang  to  you  that  night  by  the  bars — 
do  you  remember?" 

He  waited  for  my  answer,  and  I  replied,  "  Yes." 

"  I  loved  you  then,  but  thought  you'd  be  shocked  if  I  let 
you  know  it.  So  I  tried  to  make  a  jest  of  the  song.  Do 
you  remember?"  with  a  lover's  repetition. 


l82  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"Yes." 

I  wished  that  he  would  not  make  me  answer  him  in  that 
way. 

"  My  dog  knew  it — Lotus  knew  it." 

Vane  stood  silent  now  and  gazed  down  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  suddenly  he  drew  a  chair  close  and  sat  down 
in  it.     He  took  my  hands. 

"  Don't  be  cruel  to  me  !"  he  murmured. 

He  kissed  my  hands  ardently  and  repeatedly.  I  sprang 
up  and  stepped  away. 

"  We  won't  go  on  with  this  scene  any  longer,"  I  said, 
sharply. 

Vane  sat  upright  and  stared  at  me. 

"Why  do  you  call  it  a  scene?"  he  asked,  authoritatively. 

"Because  that's  what  it  is,"  I  answered.  "Now,  if  you 
want  me  to  stay  in  the  room,  you  will  begin  directly  to  talk 
of  something  else." 

A  curious  expression  came  into  the  man's  eyes,  and 
something  peculiar  to  the  curve  of  his  lips.  There  was 
silence  for  a  brief  time.  Then  Vane  said,  in  a  sort  of 
casual  way : 

"I  suppose  you  are  taking  singing-lessons?" 

"Oh  yes,"  and  I  went  on,  with  great  glibness  and  un- 
necessary particularity,  to  tell  all  about  my  practice  and 
my  teacher. 

Vane  had  returned  to  the  easy-chair  and  was  now  lean- 
ing back  carelessly  in  it,  easily  twirling  the  charm  on  his 
watch-chain,  listening  to  me  not  very  intently,  but  yet  with 
great  politeness.  The  change  in  his  manner  was  so  marked 
that  I  was  angry  in  thinking  how  extremely  well  he  had 
acted.  Or,  perhaps,  he  had  not  been  acting ;  perhaps  he 
felt  what  I  will  call  a  spasm  of  interest  in  me. 

I  could  not  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  I  had  behaved 


"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         183 

as  well  as  I  had.  A  scorching  blush  covered  my  face  at 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  my  having  felt  a  tenderness 
for  Vane  Hildreth.  I  was  obliged  to  own  that  he  was 
precisely  the  man  who  might  be  successful  in  winning  a 
girl's  fancy.  That  he  should  try  to  make  me  love  him  ! 
Looking  at  him  now  I  almost  doubted,  from  his  appearance, 
that  he  had  tried.  That  steel  shining  in  his  eyes,  that 
cynical,  smiling  lip,  that  assured  air,  strengthened  my  doubt. 
He  met  my  glance  with  a  full  look,  and  it  was  as  if  a  little 
imp  peeped  at  me  from  his  eyes. 

"  You've  been  pegging  away  so  at  your  singing,"  he  said, 
"  what  if  you  give  me  a  specimen  of  what  you  can  do  ? 
You  know  I'm  a  judge  of  that  sort  of  thing.  And  when  I 
see  my  aunt,  I'll  report." 

My  first  impulse  was  to  refuse ;  but  the  tone  and  air  of 
the  speaker  irritated  me,  and  were  in  some  way  a  challenge. 
Should  I  let  him  think  I  could  not  sing,  merely  because  he 
had  chosen  to  make  love  to  me  ? 

"  That  is  so  good  of  you,"  I  responded.  "  My  teacher 
reports  occasionally,  but  perhaps  he  would  wish  to  speak 
well  of  his  pupil." 

I  went  to  the  piano  with  an  air  of  promptness.  He  should 
have  no  die-away,  love-sick  song.  But  what  should  I  sing? 
I  knew  really,  as  I  had  told  the  stranger,  so  few  things,  that 
my  choice  was  limited.  I  sat  a  moment  with  my  fingers  on 
the  keys.  I  could  not  attack  anything  with  much  feeling 
in  it.  Stimulated  and  indignant,  I  dashed  into  that  gay  lit- 
tle thing — 

"You  are  just  a  porcelain  trifle, 
Belle  Marquise, 
Just  a  thing  of  puffs  and  patches, 
Made  for  madrigals  and  catches, 
Not  for  heart  wounds,  but  for  scratches, 
O  Marquise  ! 


184  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"Just  a  pinky  porcelain  trifle, 
Belle  Marquise  ! 
Wrought  in  rarest  Rose  Du  Barry, 
Quick  at  verbal  pout  and  parry, 
Clever,  doubtless,  but  to  marry, 
No,  Marquise  !" 

Before  I  had  reached  the  second  line  Vane  had  risen  and 
moved  to  the  end  of  the  piano,  and  he  was  leaning  there, 
looking  at  me  as  I  sang.  Though  I  did  not  return  his  look, 
I  yet  saw  him  plainly,  and  I  think  the  notes  never  fell  more 
easily  from  my  lips.  I  had  been  afraid  of  failing;  I  now  felt 
as  if  I  could  not  fail.  When  I  had  finished  Vane  continued 
to  gaze  at  me  in  silence  until  I  began  to  think  that,  after 
all,  I  had  done  ill.     When  he  did  speak,  he  asked,  coldly: 

"  Does  Aunt  Nora  know  how  you  sing  now  ?" 

"  She  has  not  heard  me,  of  course." 

I  was  distressed,  and  I  inquired,  in  a  faint  voice  : 

"Do  you  think  she  will  be  very  much  disappointed  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  Try  something  with  some  emotion 
in  it." 

I  hesitated.  It  is  rather  curious  that  emotion,  as  ordina- 
rily used,  is  very  limited  in  its  interpretation.  No,  I  de- 
cided to  myself,  I  was  not  going  to  sing  emotionally  simply 
because  Vane  requested  me  to  do  so. 

"  Sing  whatever  you  please  for  yourself,"  I  answered. 

"All  right,  so  I  will." 

When  he  had  said  that  I  was  seized  with  terror  lest  he 
should  begin  what  he  had  called  his  little  encore, 

"  To  you,  my  love,  to  you." 

But  I  need  not  have  feared.  He  reached  round  and 
touched  a  note  for  the  key.  Then  with  his  eyes  unswerv- 
ingly on  me  he  began : 


"you've  xo  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         185 

"A  silly  shepherd  woo'd,  but  wist  not 

How  he  might  his  mistress'  favor  gain  ; 
For  on  a  time  they  met,  but  kis't  not, 

And  ever  after  that  he  woo'd  in  vain. 
Never  stand  on   '  Shall  I  ?  shall  I  ?' 

Nor  command  an  after  wit. 
He  that  will  not  when  he  may, 

When  he  will  he  shall  have  nay." 

I  had  not  known  that  Vane  had  such  a  masterful  way 
with  him  while  singing;  but  then  I  had  not  known  much 
about  him.  I  had  barely  thought  thus  when  he  suddenly 
left  his  position.  He  had  taken  my  face  in  his  hands  and 
was  bending  over  me,  the  light  in  his  eyes  streaming  into 
mine,  when  the  latch  clicked.  He  started  back  and  stood 
upright.  He  uttered  some  expletive  which  I  did  not  quite 
catch.  I  felt  sure  that  I  hated  him.  Did  he  think  it  im- 
possible for  a  woman  not  to  love  him  ?     Mrs.  Ridge  entered. 

"  I  begun  to  think,"  she  was  saying,  "  that  the  water  never 
would  boil.  You  see,  the  fire  had  gone  down  'fore  I  knew 
it.  But  the  coffee's  ready  now.  Please  walk  out,  Mr.  Hil- 
dreth." 

Vane  followed  the  housekeeper  into  the  next  room.  I 
was  not  going,  but  Mrs.  Ridge  expressly  requested  me  to 
come ;  so  I  went.  The  man  whom  we  had  sheltered  was 
sitting  on  the  lounge  there.  Perhaps  Vane  was  preoccu- 
pied, for  he  did  not  at  first  notice  that  other  occupant  of 
the  room. 

In  a  moment  the  stranger  rose,  and  then  I  looked  at  him. 
He  was  standing  grasping  a  chair  and  gazing  at  Vane  ab- 
sorbedly.  I  could  not  in  the  least  interpret  the  expression 
on  his  face,  but  it  was  an  expression  which  held  my  atten- 
tion immediately. 

"If  you'll  tell  me  your  name,  mister,"  said  Mrs.  Ridge  to 


1 86  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  elder  man,  "  I'll  introduce  you."  As  she  spoke,  Vane 
turned  on  his  crutches.  I  saw  his  eyes  dilate,  his  jaw  drop 
in  the  first  instant  of  his  surprise.  He  stared  persistently. 
The  two  knew  each  other.  That  was  evident  enough. 
Gradually  the  unknown  man  reared  himself  upright  and 
met  the  scrutiny  fixed  upon  him  with  a  more  courageous 
air. 

"  Well,"  said  Vane  at  last,  "  this  is  a  surprise  !  When  did 
you  get  out  ?"    I  tried  not  to  start  as  I  heard  that  phrase. 

"  Three  days  ago,"  was  the  concise  reply.  Food  and 
warmth  had  given  strength  to  the  speaker,  for  he  answered 
unflinchingly. 

"  And  you  came  here  ?"  Vane,  in  his  great  surprise, 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  forget  that  there  were  others 
present.  His  face  showed  that  he  could  hardly  believe 
his  eyes. 

"Yes;  why  not?"  responded  the  man. 

Vane  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Well,  as  a  matter  of 
taste,  I  would  not  have  come,"  he  answered. 

"  It  wasn't  a  matter  of  taste,"  was  the  answer,  "  it  was  a 
necessity.  I  had  to  come.  I  heard  she  was  here.  What 
made  her  come  here?     Was  it  a  matter  of  taste  with  her?" 

"It  was  rather  an  accident,  I  imagine.  It's  her  house, 
you  know.     But  you  didn't  find  her." 

"  No  ;  I  didn't  find  her.  She  is  prosperous.  She  hasn't 
been  near  me  all  this  time ;  she  has  not  written.  Do  you 
think  I  would  have  treated  her  so  ?" 

Vane's  shoulders  went  up  again.  "  You  can't  expect  a 
woman  to  thank  you  for  dragging  her  down — at  least,  you 
can't  expect  Leonora  Runciman  to  do  it." 

"  Dragging  her  down  !    Good  God  !    Hear  what  he  says  !" 

The  man  flung  up  his  hand  with  an  uncontrollable  gest- 
ure.    His  pallid  face   grew  almost  purple.     Vane   turned 


'•you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         187 

away  from  him.  He  remembered  that  there  were  others 
present  who  were  ignorant  of  what  these  two  were  speak- 
ing about.  He  gave  himself  a  slight  shake  as  if  trying  to 
throw  off  an  influence. 

"  Really,"  he  said,  "  we  ought  to  beg  pardon  of  you  ladies. 
I  don't  need  any  introduction  to  this— this  person.  His 
name  is  Robert  Dreer.  Though  I  haven't  seen  him  for  ten 
years  or  more,  I  remember  him  perfectly.  I  suppose  you've 
been  pardoned  out,  eh  ?" 

I  did  not  like  Vane  Hildreth  as  he  spoke  thus,  and  I  was 
conscious  of  a  wish  to  shield  the  man  whom  he  addressed.  I 
did  make  an  involuntary  movement  towards  him.  I  checked 
that  movement  and  stood  quiet.     Vane  was  hard. 

"  Dreer?''  now  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ridge.  She  had  the  cof- 
fee-pot in  her  hand.  She  set  it  down  on  the  stove,  and  put 
a  hand  on  each  hip  as  she  regarded  the  man  standing  in 
front  of  the  lounge.  ';  Don't  I  remember  something  about 
Robert  Dreer  ?     Wasn't  it  in  the  papers?"' 

Mr.  Dreer  lifted  his  head  still  higher,  while  the  purple 
deepened  on  his  face.  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  throat. 
He  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  a  criminal.  How  could 
Vane  speak  to  him  as  he  had  done  ? 

';  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Dreer,  huskily,  "it  was  in  the  papers— the 
trial— everything;  and  I  was  the  accused  man— forgery,  em- 
bezzlement, robbery  of  the  man  who  had  been  my  bene- 
factor. It  was  all  in  the  papers  — my  sentence  —  my  be- 
havior in  court — ten  thousand  things  for  people  to  gloat 
over.  Perhaps  you  read  it  ?"  looking  at  Mrs.  Ridge,  who 
had  gradually  moved  back  until  the  table  was  between  her 
and  the  speaker. 

"  And  we've  had  you  here  these  three  days  I"  she  cried. 

"  Oh,  I'm  quite  harmless  !"  he  said. 

"Accused?"  repeated  Vane,  with  inexpressible  scorn  in 


1 88  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

his  manner.    "  You  were  more  than  accused — you  confessed 
your  guilt." 

"  So  I  did — so  I  did,"  was  the  response. 

At  this  Dreer  looked  squarely  in  Vane's  contemptuous 
eyes. 

"  How  did  you  get  out  ?"  asked  the  young  man  again. 

"  I  told  you  I  was  pardoned — for  good  behavior." 

Vane  laughed. 

"And  now  I'm  going."  Having  said  this  the  man  turned 
and  marched  with  head  up  towards  the  outer  door.  Half 
way  to  that  place  he  staggered  and  fell  forward,  face  down, 
his  arms  spread  out.  I  heard  Mrs.  Ridge  cry,  "  Oh,  what 
shall  we  do  ?"  Vane  did  not  at  first  move.  I  ran  and  knelt 
down  by  the  man.  He  was  quite  senseless.  The  next  in- 
stant Vane  came  to  my  side. 

"You  have  done  it!"  I  said  to  him  fiercely. 

"  I  ?  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  he 
retorted. 

Somehow,  among  us  all,  we  got  Mr.  Dreer  on  to  the 
lounge. 

"  I  want  him  carried  right  away,  somewhere,"  declared 
Mrs.  Ridge  ;  "  I  can't  have  him  here  another  minute.  Why, 
he  might  have  killed  us  in  our  beds  !" 

"  Absurd  !"  I  said,  shortly. 

"Why,  he's  just  out  of  prison!  He  says  so  himself.  I 
s'pose  he  came  straight  here  from  Sing  Sing.  Yes,  it's  a 
wonder  we  were  not  killed  in  our  beds  !"  The  woman's 
voice  exasperated  me.  What  if  he  had  come  from  Sing 
Sing?  He  was  not  a  wicked  man.  I  said  aloud  that  he 
was  not  a  wicked  man.    Vane  glanced  at  me. 

"  He  must  be  taken  right  away,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Ridge. 
I  thought  that  she  was  going  to  repeat  her  remark  about 
being  killed  in  our  beds,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  bear 


"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am''         189 

to  hear  it  for  the  third  time.  I  did  not  stop  to  think  that 
it  might  be  strange  that  I  should  unhesitatingly  espouse 
this  convict's  cause.  I  did  not  care  how  surprisedly  Vane 
gazed  at  me. 

"  Don't  you  know  of  anything  to  do  ?"  I  asked,  turning 
upon  Mrs.  Ridge.  "  Why  do  you  stand  there  doing  noth- 
ing ?  You  see  he  can't  be  carried  away  this  cold  night. 
You  wouldn't  turn  a  brute  out  !  I  won't  have  it !  I  say,  I 
won't  have  it  !" 

Before  my  imperiousness  Mrs.  Ridge  bestirred  herself. 
And  Vane  helped;  I  will  say  that  for  him.  After  Mr. 
Dreer  had  revived  and  was  lying  with  head  averted  on 
the  lounge,  Vane  took  my  arm  and  led  me  into  the  sitting- 
room.     His  lips  were  compressed  and  his  eyes  stern. 

"  You're  like  a  woman,"  he  said.  "  You're  very  unreason- 
able." I  bent  my  head  in  silence.  I  would  listen,  but  noth- 
ing he  could  say  should  make  any  difference  with  me. 

"  Entirely  unreasonable,"  he  went  on.  "  I  see  you  con- 
demn me  directly.  Why  do  you  do  that?  Do  you  dislike 
me  so  much  ?" 

I  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  dislike  me  so  much  ?"  more  sternly  than  be- 
fore. 

"  I  don't  dislike  you  at  all.     But  we  needn't  talk  about 

that." 

"  No ,  that's  true,  we  need  not.  You  thought  me  cruel 
to  that  man.     What  do  you  know  about  him  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  only  I  mean  to   help  him  if  I  can,"  a  little 

defiantly. 

"  Regardless  of  his  past?" 

"  Certainly.     His  past  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Have  you  written  to  Aunt  Nora  that  he  is  here  ?" 

"  No." 


igo  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

11  You  should  not  do  so.  What  right  have  you  to  keep 
him  in  her  house  ?" 

At  this  I  hesitated;  but  in  my  mind  I  did  not  retreat 
from  my  resolution. 

"  I  shall  not  do  anything  to  harm  Miss  Runciman,"  I 
answered  at  last. 

"  What  has  he  told  you  about  her  ?'' 

"  Nothing.  He  came  here  because  he  thought  he  should 
find  her.  He  was  much  affected  at  sight  of  her  portrait 
there."  I  glanced  at  the  picture  on  the  wall.  Vane  moved 
and  looked  at  the  portrait,  and  I  watched  his  face,  which 
the  lamplight  shone  upon.  He  turned  his  back  towards 
me. 

"  We  owe  a  great  deal  to  Miss  Runciman,"  he  said. 

"  I  owe  her  a  great  deal,"  I  answered,  warmly.  I  thought 
he  was  going  on  with  the  subject,  but  his  countenance 
suddenly  changed,  as  if  a  light  had  flashed  through  it. 

"  Can't  you  love  me  ?"  he  asked,  softly.  "Are  you  sure 
you  never  could  love  me  the  least  in  the  world  ?" 

I  wanted  to  answer  promptly,  but  for  some  reason  I  could 
not  do  it. 

"You're  not  sure,  then?"  he  went  on,  with  a  touching 
eagerness  in  his  manner — at  least,  it  would  have  been  a 
touching  eagerness  if  I  had  not  understood  his  tendencies 
so  well.     I  raised  my  eyes. 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  perfectly  sure." 

Vane  sat  down  and  leaned  his  crutches  against  his  chair. 
I  still  found  it  impossible  to  see  those  crutches  without  a 
pang.  You  know  I  had  not  had  time  to  become  at  all 
accustomed  to  them,  and  Vane  had  been  so  gayly,  almost 
insolently,  active. 

"  Then  that  is  done  with,"  he  said,  gloomily.  "  I've 
been  a  poor  fool  all  this  time,  thinking  of  you  night  and 


"youve  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am  191 

day.     Sometimes  I  hoped,  and  then  I  despaired.     I  sup- 
pose that's  the  way  with  lovers." 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  I  retorted  before  I  thought.  Then 
I  blushed  with  keen  discomfort. 

He  looked  up  quickly.     "  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 

I  put  on  a  bold  face.  "  Because  it's  a  part  you've  played 
so  many  times,"  I  answered. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  responded.  "Of  course,  a  tenor  is  con- 
tinually playing  the  lover.  But  I  didn't  mean  that — I'm 
not  acting  now.     I  wish  I  could  think  you  were." 

I  saw  no  reason  why  this  scene  should  be  continued.  I 
walked  towards  the  door.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Ridge  would  try 
to  turn  Mr.  Dreer  out  of  the  house,  and  I  must  be  present 
to  protect  him. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  me  ?"  Vane  asked.  He  was 
leaning  forward,  with  his  hands  on  his  knees.  I  just  glanced 
at  him  and  then  turned  away. 

"Go,  then,"  he  exclaimed,  passionately,  "but  you've  got 
to  love  me — it's  your  fate  !  I  can't  stop  loving  you,  and  I 
wouldn't  stop  if  I  could.  Remember,  every  time  you  think 
of  me,  think,  '  That  man  loves  me — he's  going  to  love  me 
as  long  as  he  lives!"'  Here  he  burst  out  laughing,  with  not 
much  merriment.  "That  sounds  something  like  a  curse, 
doesn't  it  ?  But  I  don't  mean  that  my  love  shall  be  a  curse 
to  you."     He  now  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"Wait  one  moment,"  as  I  put  my  hand  on  the  latch. 
"You  needn't  avoid  me  after  this,  thinking  I  shall  keep 
harping  on  my  love.  I  won't  annoy  you,  you'll  see.  Now, 
promise  me  you  won't  try  to  keep  away  from  me.  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  here  a  few  days,  unless  you  drive  me  off,  and  it'll 
be  very  uncomfortable  for  both  of  us  if  you  are  to  regard 
me  as  a  person  who  is  liable  to  talk  love  at  every  opportu- 
nity.    You've  no  idea  how  well  I  shall  behave." 


192  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  was  puzzled  by  Vane  now  j  but  I  gave  the  promise  he 
asked  for.  It  would  be  quite  ridiculous  to  try  to  keep  out 
of  his  way  in  a  quiet  place  like  this.  But  I  did  not  like  his 
remaining.  I  thought  he  ought  to  go  immediately,  no  mat- 
ter if  he  froze  to  death  in  the  awful  air  outside.  That  was 
my  idea  of  how  a  rejected  lover  should  act.  Now  I  turned 
the  latch  and  left  Vane  alone.  I  hurried  into  the  kitchen, 
to  find  Mrs.  Ridge  sitting  dejectedly  in  a  chair  by  the  cook- 
stove,  her  feet  on  the  stove  hearth,  and  her  hands  clasped 
over  her  knees.  Mr.  Dreer  was  lying  on  the  lounge,  mo- 
tionless. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  think,  and  I  can't  do  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Ridge. 

I  did  not  make  any  response.  I  found  that  I  was  trem- 
bling for  some  reason.  I  sat  down  and  tried  to  hold  my- 
self quiet. 

"I  s'pose,"  went  on  the  woman,  "that  this  is  the  select- 
men's business,  if  they  have  such  things  as  selectmen  here. 
But  who's  to  go  and  hunt  'em  up  such  a  night 's  this,  I 
should  just  like  to  know  !  That  man's  going  to  be  sick  " — 
sinking  her  voice — "and  what's  to  become  of  us  I  can't 
guess." 

"  I'll  help  take  care  of  him,"  I  answered,  promptly.  I 
could  be  prompt  on  that  subject.     And  I  kept  my  word. 

The  next  two  weeks  were  made  up  of  strange  days. 
I  stopped  practising  and  taking  lessons.  Dust  gathered 
on  the  piano  and  the  guitar  and  the  banjo.  Vane  did  not 
go  away,  to  my  surprise.  He  sat  and  read  in  the  sitting- 
room,  or  walked  out  slowly  on  the  snow.  The  cold  held 
on  wonderfully. 

The  sick  man  lay  in  the  chamber  over  the  kitchen.  Now 
that  he  was  relegated  to  a  bed,  and  could  not  possibly  get 
up  and  murder  us  in  our  beds,  Mrs.  Ridge's  instincts  as  a 


"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         193 

nurse  had  full  play.  She  dosed  her  patient  with  a  great 
many  different  kinds  of  herb  teas.  She  called  in  the  doc- 
tor, whose  opinion  was  that  the  man  would  rally  after  a 
while,  if  fed  with  nourishing  food  and  allowed  to  rest.  "  He 
has  evidently  been  under  a  great  and  prolonged  strain,"  he 
said.  Perhaps  the  physician  had  a  suspicion  that  there 
was  no  fund  from  which  his  fees  would  be  forthcoming,  and 
so  he  left  us  with  the  remark  that  if  anything  new  set  in  we 
might  send  for  him.  Nothing  new  did  set  in,  but  for  the 
first  week  I  felt  sure  that  Mr.  Dreer  would  sink  away  and 
die  just  from  lack  of  a  motive  to  live. 

He  was  not  wildly  delirious,  but  he  continually  mistook 
me  for  some  one  else.  He  called  me  Leonora  in  a  feeble, 
pleading  voice.  It  was  so  pitiable  that  I  was  guilty  of  the 
deepest  sympathy,  and  sympathy  is  "  ruled  out,"  they  tell 
me,  in  these  days. 

At  the  very  first  I  overheard  Vane  saying  to  Mrs.  Ridge 
that  she  need  not  write  to  Miss  Runciman  anything  con- 
cerning this  new  occupant  of  the  house,  and  the  next  day 
he  gave  me  the  same  advice.  He  explained  that  the  knowl- 
edge might  trouble  her,  and  in  the  height  of  an  opera  sea- 
son she  should  have  all  her  strength  for  her  work.  So  I  did 
not  write ;  indeed,  I  was  not  in  the  habit  of  sending  letters 
to  Miss  Runciman. 

I  have  no  need  to  dwell  further  upon  this  episode  of  my 
winter  in  the  old  Holloway  house.  On  the  third  week  Mr. 
Dreer  struggled  upon  his  feet.  He  looked  like  a  ghost. 
He  said  he  would  go  now;  he  tried  to  tell  us  how  kind  we 
had  been  to  him,  but  he  choked  and  stopped.  I  didn't 
have  much  money  ;  I  had  $10  and  some  change  in  my  purse. 
I  sought  a  private  interview  with  Mr.  Dreer,  and  I  made 
him  take  the  $10.  I  thought  he  would  faint  when  I  offered 
the  money  to  him.  It  was  some  moments  before  he  under- 
13 


194  IN   THE    FIRST   PERSON 

stood  that  I  would  not  be  refused.  Then  he  tried  again  to 
speak  some  thanks,  and  again  could  not. 

No,  I  told  myself,  though  he  had  spent  all  his  life  in 
prison  because  of  a  confessed  crime,  he  was  not  a  wicked 
man.  This  was  one  of  my  convictions,  and  I  began  to 
think  that  I  was  one  who  acted  out  a  conviction — or  why 
should  I  have  a  conviction  ? 

Mrs.  Ridge,  having  done  kind  acts  for  this  man,  began 
to  feel  kindly  to  him.  Isn't  there  a  theory  that  to  feel  a 
certain  thing  one  must  perform  an  act  in  that  direction  ? 
For  instance  :  you  will  not  have  the  emotion  of  anger  un- 
til you  have  struck  some  one.  It's  a  fine  theory,  and  will 
bring  you  out  to  quite  curious  conclusions  sometimes. 

Well,  Mrs.  Ridge,  I  suppose,  was  acting  after  the  man- 
ner hinted  at  in  the  above  paragraph,  for  she  brought  for- 
ward an  old,  heavy  gray  shawl  that  had  been  the  property 
of  her  deceased  husband.  She  made  Mr.  Dreer  wrap  him- 
self in  this  shawl,  and  she  prepared  sandwiches  for  him. 
Thus  equipped,  the  man  said  good-bye  to  us  and  started 
forth.  At  the  gate  he  turned  and  looked  back  at  me  and 
at  the  house — he  looked  longest  at  the  house — a  persistent, 
mournful  gaze  that  haunted  me.  Vane  was  not  present. 
It  seemed  heartless  in  him  to  be  away  just  then.  In  about 
an  hour,  however,  he  returned  and  came  to  the  sitting- 
room,  where  I  was  at  the  piano.  He  held  out  two  $5 
notes. 

"These  are  yours,"  he  said.  "I  saw  Mr.  Dreer  at  the 
station,  and  he  sent  the  money  back  to  you.  He  said  he 
knew  you  had  but  little." 

"  But,"  I  began,  "  he  will  need—" 

"  No,  he'll  get  along,"  interrupted  Vane.     "  You  see — " 

Here  he  hesitated,  and  I  filled  out  the  sentence.  "  You 
gave  him  some  money." 


"you've  no  idea  how  persistent  i  am"         195 

"Yes— a  little." 

I  was  thankful  to  learn  that  Vane  had  not  been  so  hard 
as  I  had  believed  him  to  be.  Perhaps  I  looked  my  grati- 
tude, for  my  companion's  face  suddenly  kindled.  "  You 
thought  me  a  hard-hearted  wretch  !"  he  exclaimed.  He 
came  close  to  the  piano. 

"You  seemed  hard." 

"  Seemed  ?  When  in  truth  I'm  the  softest-hearted  fellow 
on  the  face  of  the  globe — but  persistent — ah,  Billy,  you've 
no  idea  how  persistent  I  am." 

Here  Vane  gave  me  a  glance. 


XII 

"long  live  the  king!" 

If  this  were  a  novel  I  think  I  should  know  just  what 
thread  of  the  plot  to  take  up,  but  as  it  is  only  the  record 
of  the  life  of  a  girl  who  once  tried  to  become  an  opera 
singer,  I  sometimes  am  in  doubt  as  to  what  incidents  I 
ought  to  relate.  Have  you  never  noticed  that  in  one's 
own  life  all  incidents  seem  important?  Just  as,  when  we 
come  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morning,  we  think  it  is  a 
matter  of  interest  to  tell  the  people  at  the  table  how  we 
slept  and  what  we  dreamed.  But  they  don't  care  in  the 
least  whether  we  slept  or  dreamed  ;  what  they  care  for  is 
for  us  to  listen  to  their  tale  of  how  they  spent  the  night. 

However,  it  is  strictly  correct  for  me  to  think  that  the 
17th  of  March  of  that  year  was  an  important  date  to  me. 
It  was  on  the  morning  of  that  day  that  I  received  Miss 
Runciman's  telegram.  It  was  written  on  the  train,  between 
Buffalo  and  New  York,  and  this  is  what  it  said : 

"  To  Wilhelmina  Armstrong, 

"The  Old  Holloway  House, 

"  Lally's  Falls,  near  Wallingford,  N.  Y. 
'■  Go  to  New  York  on  the  2.15  train  if  no  one  calls  for  you  before  that 

time.      Go  to  the  S Hotel  and  wait.      Imperative — imperative. 

"Leondra  Runciman." 

Do  you  imagine  that  these  words  set  my  heart  to  beat- 
ing ?     In  ten  minutes  from  the  time  the  message  had  been 


"long  live  the  king!"  197 

received  I  had  a  satchel  packed  with  some  of  my  belong- 
ings; ten  minutes  later  I  had  taken  those  things  from  the 
bag  and  put  in  others  ;  I  had  not  the  least  idea  what  I 
ought  to  carry,  and  this  was  more  than  four  hours  before  I 
was  to  start. 

Mrs.  Rid°"e,  whom  I  consulted,  seemed  to  think  I  should 
be  "  safe" — that  is  her  word — if  I  filled  my  bag  with  stock- 
ings. She  said  a  girl  always  felt  a  kind  of  self-respect  if 
she  had  plenty  of  stockings  within  reach  of  her  hand.  So 
I  packed  stockings ;  but  a  half-hour  after  thus  doing  I  had 
removed  them  and  had  substituted  handkerchiefs. 

Between  these  occupations  I  reread  the  telegram,  and  I 
looked  at  a  New  York  newspaper  of  the  day  before.  I  had 
found  in  one  of  the  columns  an  announcement  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Runciman  opera  troupe.  The  praise  bestowed 
upon  these  singers  was  very  great ;  it  made  me  flush  and 
my  temples  throb  to  read  it. 

Would  any  one  call  for  me  ?  I  hated  to  go  alone.  I  had 
never  been  to  New  York  in  my  life.  I  was  afraid  of  the 
city  as  if  it  were  a  great  ravening  monster.  But  I  would 
brave  it,  nevertheless  ;  I  would  run  the  risk  of  being  de- 
voured.    Nothing  would  prevent  my  getting,  some  way,  to 

the  s Hotel  that  afternoon.     I  counted  o^ser  my  money. 

I  should  not  dare  to  try  to  go  by  street-cars  from  the  sta- 
tion to  the  hotel ;  I  might  get  lost.  I  would  take  a  car- 
riage.    Would  $3.73  pay  for  a  carriage? 

I  put  this  question  to  Mrs.  Ridge,  who  hastily  shook  her 
hands  from  the  dish-water  as  if  she  could  not  tell  me  if  she 
hadn't  her  hands  free. 

"Mercy,  child!"  she  cried,  "I  sh'll  go  with  you  rather 
than  have  you  go  alone.  I  ain't  much  acquainted  in  Ne' 
York,  but  I  shaVt  have  you  spending  your  money  on  hack- 
drivers." 


Iq8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  house.  I  sang  with  fit- 
ful enthusiasm.  My  hands  were  cold,  my  cheeks  hot.  I 
was  continually  looking  at  the  clock.  The  hands  barely 
crawled  over  the  face.  A  train  from  the  city  stopped  here 
at  12.03.  It  would  kill  a  little  time  if  I  went  to  the  station. 
It  is  always  an  excitement  in  a  lonely  place  to  see  a  train 
come  in.  It  is  as  if  a  hand  from  a  live,  palpitating,  far-away 
giant  reached  forth  and  touched  you  with  the  tips  of  its 
fingers. 

The  engine  came  puffing  up,  dragging  its  burden  behind 
it.  A  March  wind  whirled  about  the  bit  of  a  station,  but  it 
was  an  April  sun  that  glittered  on  the  building  and  on  the 
bare  fields  about  it. 

I  stood  staring  at  the  train.  I  saw  two  women  alight, 
one  of  them  with  a  pug  dog,  who  strained  and  choked  at  the 
leash,  pulling  his  mistress  incontinently  over  the  platform. 
I  watched  them.  Everything  interested  me  this  morning. 
To  myself  I  was  humming, 

1 '  Lace  up  my  shoe  ; 
Put  on  my  basquina  ; 
Can  you  see  my  black  eyes  ? 
I  am  Manuel's  duchess." 

Just  as  I  had  reached  for  the  second  time  the  words  "  I 
am  Manuel's  duchess,"  the  train  drew  along  over  the  rails 
and  went,  faster  and  faster,  out  of  sight. 

The  station-master  was  assorting  the  mail.  The  first  let- 
ter he  took  in  his  hand  he  gave  to  me.  It  was  from  mother. 
The  man  glanced  up,  and  then  asked,  "  Did  you  miss  your 
visitor?" 

I  said  I  had  no  visitor. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  have.  Man  got  off  the  train — wanted  Miss 
Wilhelmina  Armstrong.  I  sent  him  to  the  Holloway  place. 
He's  gone." 


"long  live  the  king!"  199 

I  hurried  on  up  the  road.     As  I  hurried  I  sang  inaudibly  : 

"  Lace  up  my  shoe  ; 
Put  on  my  basquina — " 

Ah  !  There  was  a  figure  ahead ;  a  figure  quite  different 
from  that  of  Robert  Dreer.  This  must  be  the  person  who 
had  come  to  take  me  to  New  York — a  man  in  a  long  coat 
and  a  silk  hat,  who  was  swinging  on  rapidly. 

Perhaps  he  heard  my  footsteps,  for  he  stopped,  gazed 
down  the  slope,  then  hastened  towards  me.  I  am  far-sight- 
ed, and  it  was  not  until  the  stranger  was  within  a  few  yards 
that  I  recognized  him.  It  was  Mr.  Maverick.  He  came 
up,  hat  in  hand. 

"  I  bessed  Miss  Runciman  to  let  me  come,"  he  said, 
quickly,  after  we  had  shaken  hands.  The  man's  keen  eyes 
were  glancing  over  me.  My  impression  of  those  eyes  was 
the  same  now  that  it  had  been  in  Chilton  at  the  Ottawa 
House.  They  were  ruling  eyes.  But  his  manner  was  def- 
erential and  gentle  in  the  extreme. 

I  held  mother's  letter  with  unconscious  closeness  in  my 
hand. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  went  on,  "for  myself  as  well 
as  for  Miss  Runciman." 

He  looked  me  up  and  down. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  tall,"  he  said. 

I  laughed  with  some  constraint.  I  did  not  relish  being 
appraised  in  this  way. 

"  Oh,"  he  continued  easily,  "  you  must  not  be  offended. 
A  tall  woman  is  much  more  effective  on  the  stage.  When 
we  get  to  the  house  you'll  sing  to  me." 

"  Did  Miss  Runciman  wish  you  to  hear  me  sing  ?"  I  asked, 

quickly. 

This  man's  air  of  command  excited  rebellion  in  my  mind. 


200  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  She  did  not  tell  me  so." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  excuse  me,"  I  responded,  with  de- 
cision. 

He  smiled  as  if  he  said:  "We'll  let  this  child  think  she 
has  her  own  way — since  to  think  so  amuses  her." 

And  I  did  not  sing  to  him.  I  let  him  stay  in  the  sitting- 
room  while  I  hurried  to  my  own  chamber.  In  less  than  an 
hour  I  should  be  on  my  way  to  the  city  and  to  Miss  Runci- 
man. 

But  now  there  was  mother's  letter.  My  own  home 
seemed  in  a  "country  that  was  very  far  off."  I  unfolded 
the  sheets  and  gazed  blindly  for  an  instant  at  the  illiterate, 
painstaking  hand.  But  this  time  the  writer  had  expressed 
herself  fluently,  not  hesitating  for  words,  as  I  knew  she 
was  usually  obliged  to  do.  There  were  several  written 
pages.  At  first  I  could  not  quite  put  my  mind  on  the  lines, 
and  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  wicked  for  that  reason.  My 
thoughts  would  fly  away  to  Miss  Runciman,  to  the  man 
down-stairs,  to  the  future,  and  I  could  not  help  singing,  in 
my  mind  : 

"  Lace  up  my  shoe ; 
Put  on  my  basquina," 

though  I  was  not  in  the  least  thinking  of  the  song  ;  it  was 
that  sort  of  sub-consciousness  which,  after  all,  forms  so  large 
a  part  of  our  lives. 

But  in  a  moment  everything  else  dropped  from  my 
thought;  I  was  absorbed  in  what  I  was  reading;  I  was 
sitting  again  on  my  little  footstool  by  my  mother's  chair. 

•  "  My  dear  WlLHELMINA, — I  did  not  write  to  you  la.st  week.     I  tried 
three  times,  but  when  I  got  my  paper  on  the  table  and  my  pen  and  ink 
somebody  came  to  disturb  me.     To-day  your  father  has  taken  Lowi/y 
over  to  Great  Medows" — mother  was  never  quite  certain   about  her 


"long  live  the  king!"  201 

spelling — "and  I  am  all  alone  in  the  house.  Even  the  cat  isn't  here. 
The  cat  is  dead.  I  know  you  will  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that.  We 
think  she  must  have  eat  some  poison  that  your  father  put  in  the  barn 
cellar  for  rats.  She  is  buried  at  the  head  of  the  lane,  under  the  wild- 
apple  tree." 

My  heart  swelled  as  I  read  this  news.  The  cat  had  been 
given  to  me  when  she  was  a  four-weeks-old  kitten,  and  I 
was  a  child  always  running  about  the  yard.  She  was  a  part 
of  my  childhood,  and  that  wild-apple  tree  at  the  head  of  the 
lane  —  did  I  not  know  every  crook  in  the  branches,  and 
just  where  the  robins  had  built  for  so  many  years,  and 
the  sharp,  puckery  quality  of  the  small,  blood-red  apples? 
I  shut  my  eyes,  and  for  the  moment  I  was  back  there, 
smelling  the  scents  of  the  river -banks,  hearing  the  frogs, 
holding  the  cat  in  my  arms  while  she  purred  and  narrowed 
her  eyes  in  the  sunlight.  A  keen  pang  went  through  me. 
Presently  I  went  on  with  the  reading : 

"  It's  just  as  still  here  to-day  as  can  be,  and  somehow  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  write  freely  ;  I  can't  do  that  usually  ;  my  pen  seems  like  some- 
thing that  stands  in  the  way  of  my  thoughts.  I  cried  about  the  cat.  I 
thought  how  you'd  feel.  Your  father  laughed  at  me.  He  said  the  cat 
was  real  old,  and  that  there  were  plenty  more.  He  said  I  was  foolish, 
and  I  know  I  was.  Seems  as  if  your  father  had  grown  old.  All  to 
once,  you  know,  folks  begin  to  look  old.  Maybe  something  troubles 
him  ;  he  don't  speak  of  anything  troubling  him. 

"  How  curious  'tis  for  me  to  feel  just  as  if  my  pen  wasn't  stopping  me 
from  saying  things  to  you  !     I  guess  it's  'cause  there  ain't  anyboch 
in  the  house.      I  can  hear  the  sound  of  the  falls  real  plain,  though  the 
windows  are  all  shut. 

"I  wish  you  felt  like  writing  home  more  about  how  you  get  along 
with  your  singing.  You  don't  mention  much  of  anything,  somehow. 
I  suppose  you  don't  have  time.  Your  father  gets  a  daily  paper  some- 
times when  he  goes  to  the  village.  Twice  I've  seen  things  in  pi 
of  Miss  Runciman's  singing  and  acting.  I  wish  I  could  believe  in  that 
woman  more.     You  know,  I  don't  believe  in  her,  though  she  does  make 


202  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

you  feel  so   pleased  with  yourself,  somehow.     But  I   hope  you've   got 
sound  principles  to  make  you  straight  wherever  you  are.     I  don't  s'pose 
she  gambles,  or  drinks,  or  any  of  those  things.      I  think  of  you  all  the 
time,  Billy.     I  bear  you  in  my  heart.     I've  got  so  I  dreem  almost  every 
night  about  you.     I  wish  I  didn't.     Always  I'm  trying  to  save  you  from 
something — from  fire,  from  drowning,  from  some  dreadful  thing  ;  and  I 
struggle  after  you,  and  reach  my  hands  to  you,  and  I  can't  quite  get  to 
you  ;  and  I  wake  up   all  covered  with  cold   sweat.      Then  I  pray  and 
pray  for  you  until  I  fall   asleep  again   and  go  all  over  the  same  thing. 
So  I  don't  get  so  much  good  rest  as  I  ought  to  have.      But  you  needn't 
think   I'm   complaining.      Last   night   my  dreams  were  more  real  than 
ever,  but  so  confused,  you  know.      I  was  trying  so  hard  to  get  to  you. 
You  were  with  a  man  who  had  such  strong  eyes,  and  he  had  you  in  his 
arms,  and  was  carrying  you  off  all  the  time,  only  he  was  always  just  the 
same  distance  away.     And  I  was    screaming  to  him   to  stop,  and  he 
smiled  and  wouldn't  stop.     You  had  your  arms  round  his  neck,  and  you 
looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder,  and  you  kept  crying  '  Mother  !  mother  ! 
can't  you  save  me  ?'     And    the   man    changed  into  that  young  singer 
named  Hildreth,  and  all  the  time  I  tried  to  run  after  you  and  I  couldn't 
run,  till  I  thought  I  was  going  to  die.      Finally  I  woke  up,  groaning, 
and  your  father  had  to  get  me  a  few  drops  of  brandy  in  some  water,  I 
was  so  prostraited.      I  can't  get  over  that  dreem.     It  hasn't  been  out  of 
my  mind  a  minute  all  day,  and  the  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  that 
man  who  was  carrying  you  off  makes  me  think  of  the  man  that  came  here 
and  bought  a  horse  of  your  father  last  summer,  and  just  as  much  of  the 
Mr.  Hildreth,  too.     How  odd  that  is  '     It  makes  me  feel  sick.     He  had 
a  great   diamond  in  a  ring   on    his    finger.      He  was  handsome,  and  I 
guess  he  always  has  his  own  way.      I  don't  s'pose  you  remember  him  ; 
perhaps  you'd  forgot  all  about  him,  and  you  won't  he  likely  to  see  him. 
Now  he'd  call   it  silly,  and  so  'tis.      But,  oh,  if  you  felt  like  coining 
home  !     I  feel  as  if  you  wasn't  safe  where  you  are.     But  I  know  that's 
all  a  notion.     I  tell  myself  twenty  times  a  day  that  it's  all  a  notion.      I 
wouldn't  speak  of  it  to  your  father,  because   he'd  call  it  silly,  and  so 
'tis.      But,  oh,  if  you  felt  like  giving  up  trying  to  sing,  and  would  come 
home  !     You  could  sit  in  the  seats  Sundays  and  sing.      My  dear  little 
girl,  my  own  Baby  that  I've  prayed   over  ever  since  you  were  born,  do 
be  good — do  be  good-     I'm  trying  to  be  good  ;  every  day  I  try.     When 
the  Lord  comes — and  He's  coming — any  day  He  may  come — I  want  we 


"long  live  the  king!"  203 

should  go  together  to  everlasting  Blessedness.  I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't 
be  Blessed  ;  no,  I  couldn't  take  Blessedness  from  the  Lord  if  He  didn't 
give  it  to  you,  too,  my  dear  daughter. 

"  I  sha'n't  dare  to  read  this  over,  for  fear  I  sha'n't  think  I  ought  to 
send  it.  I  don't  know  what  your  father  would  say  if  he  should  see  it. 
I'm  goino-  to  sit  by  the  window  and  watch  for  the  baker  when  he  comes 
from  Great  Medows  and  ask  him  to  mail  it  for  me.  I  want  it  to  go 
now.      I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  wait  a  minute  for  it  to  go. 

"Laura  Lincoln  is  going  to  marry  John  Haskell.  You  know  they 
were  en^ao-ed  two  years  ago,  and  she  broke  it  off  'cause  she  got  be- 
wiched  with  that  book  agent.  But  the  agent  left  her,  and  now  John 
Haskell  has  begun  going  with  her  again,  and  they  are  engaged.  The 
minister  called  here  last  week.  He  asked  particular  about  you.  He 
said  he  always  understood  that  a  singer's  life  was  one  of  great  tempta- 
tions. I  told  him  I  hoped  you  had  good  principles,  and  he  said  no 
doubt  you  had.  And  you  have,  haven't  you,  my  dear  daughter?  It's 
most  time  to  begin  to  look  for  the  baker.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  keep  on 
writing  for  hours.      I  guess  it  must  be  'cause   I'm  alone  in  the  house. 

It  does  seem  as  if  I  heard  bells.     I  must  hurry. 

"  Mother." 

When  I  reached  the  last  word  I  turned  back  and  began 
again  to  read,  almost  as  breathlessly  as  I  had  read  the  first 
time.  And  now  I  saw,  scribbled  across  the  top  of  the  first 
page,  these  words  : 

"  I  hope  you  won't  happen  to  meet  that  man  I  dreemed  about.  He 
was  exactly  like  the  one  that  bought  a  horse  of  your  father.  I  do 
hope  you  won't  meet  him.     And  like  that  other  young  man,  too." 

Why,  he — one  of  them — was  down  stairs  at  this  very  mo- 
ment, waiting  to  escort  me  to  New  York.  There  was  no 
mistaking  that  one. 

A  cloud  of  doubt  and  fear  and  homesick  longing  came 
over  me,  and  thickened  and  deepened  as  I  reread  mother's 
letter.  Perhaps,  as  I  had  thought  before,  something  of  the 
mystical  vein  in  her  nature  was  in  me.     I  was  afraid  as  I 


204  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

read.  And  the  longing  to  go  to  my  mother  grew  upon 
me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  suddenly  started  from  my  chair 
with  the  letter  pressed  against  my  bosom. 

But  no.  How  could  I  sacrifice  my  work  in  life — my  glo- 
rious work  that  I  was  loving  more  and  more  ?  And  it  was 
not  wrong  to  be  a  public  singer.  And  mother  really  was 
fanciful  and  imaginative.  She  had  taken  this  fancy  about 
the  man  down-stairs  and  about  Vane.  It  was  strange  that 
her  letter  came  when  he  came — the  same  train  brought 
them.  Father  approved  of  my  leaving  home  and  learning 
to  sing.  No,  mother  ought  not  to  make  so  much  of  a  con- 
fused dream.  Why,  everybody  had  dreams,  and  what  would 
become  of  us  all  if  we  paid  heed  to  them  ?  As  for  Mr. 
Maverick,  even  if  he  wanted  to  work  any  harm  to  me,  how 
could  he  succeed  ?  And  there  was  not  the  slightest  reason 
for  his  wishing  to  harm  me. 

I  hurriedly  dressed.  I  pinned  mother's  letter  inside  the 
waist  of  my  gown ;  it  seemed  to  me  like  an  amulet  that 
would  help  to  keep  evil  from  me.  I  had  spent  so  much 
time  in  reading  that  letter  that  it  lacked  but  a  few  mo- 
ments of  the  hour  when  we  must  leave  the  house  for  the 
train,  for  we  were  to  walk.  I  was  glad  there  was  no  need 
for  me  to  wait.  I  could  not  linger  a  moment  now  before 
I  was  on  the  way. 

Mrs.  Ridge  had  given  Mr.  Maverick  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  he  was  now  sipping  it  with  as  much  an  air  of  leisure 
as  if  he  were  going  to  remain  all  day.  The  very  sight  of 
him  doing  this  made  me  impatient.  I  tried  to  drink  my 
own  coffee,  but  I  could  not;  and  I  could  not  eat,  though 
Mrs.  Ridge  remonstrated  with  me,  and  said  it  wasn't  any 
way  to  start  on  a  journey  and  run  the  risk  of  being  faint 
the  first  thing.  Mr.  Maverick  put  down  his  cup  and  looked 
at  his  watch,     I  was  standing  motionless  by  the  window. 


"long  live  the  king!"  205 

I  was  obliged  to  hold  myself  rigidly  quiet ;  I  did  not  wish 
Mr.  Maverick  to  think  I  was  "nervous." 

At  last  we  stepped  out  of  the  door  into  the  wind.  Mr. 
Maverick  carried  my  satchel ;  he  said  Miss  Runciman 
would  send  down  for  my  trunk.  The  sunshine  was  very 
bright;  though  the  March  winds  were  blowing,  "heaven 
had  put  on  the  blue  of  May."  I  was  so  thankful  that  the 
sun  shone.  It  is  always  a  good  omen  to  go  out  into  sun- 
light. 

I  remember  with  gratitude  that  Mr.  Maverick  did  not 
talk  to  me  on  the  brief  journey,  and  he  let  me  sit  in  my 
seat  alone.  There  were  very  few  passengers.  My  com- 
panion sat  behind  me  and  read.  I  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow blindly.  I  was  going  to  Miss  Runciman.  She  would 
perhaps  make  me  sing,  or  she  would  not  have  sent  for  me. 
I  was  both  frightened  and  exhilarated.  I  was  not  trained 
— I  did  not  know  how  to  sing  or  to  act. 

The  landscape  flew  by  the  car ;  before  I  had  begun 
to  think  it  possible  we  were  near  our  journey's  end;  the 
houses  grew  more  frequent ;  there  were  big  buildings  with 
verandas  all  about  them,  and  in  front,  on  arched  signs,  the 
words,  "Beer  Garden."  There  seemed  to  me  a  great  many 
places  where  one  might  get  lager  beer.  I  wondered  idly 
about  this.  Then  soon  there  were  long  rows  of  brick  build- 
ings standing;  in  what  seemed  to  be  desolate  fields — the 
city  had  not  grown  to  them  —  and  tumble -down  shanties 
and  goats  ;  and  then  the  train  shot  into  a  long,  dark  tun- 
nel, the  lights  in  the  cars  burned  dimly  and  shed  strange 
gleams  on  the  faces  of  the  passengers.  There  were  many 
more  people  in  the  cars  now,  and  presently  they  began 
to  move,  to  draw  their  wraps  about  them,  to  take  down 
bundles  from  the  racks,  and  to  talk  about  friends  who  were 
to  meet  them. 


206  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Mr.  Maverick  took  my  satchel ;  he  helped  me  put  on  my 
jacket ;  then  he  drew  on  his  own  overcoat.  But  he  would 
not  hurry  when  the  train  stopped.  I  noticed  that,  among 
the  men  and  women  who  crowded  by,  several  looked  at  my 
companion,  then  glanced  again,  and  one  said  :  "  It's  the 
singer — it's  Maverick.  You  ought  to  hear  him  as  Lohen- 
grin— magnificent !" 

Mr.  Maverick  heard  the  words,  too,  I  was  sure,  for  I 
saw  him  smile  slightly  under  his  mustache,  and  a  gleam  of 
gratification  came  to  his  eyes.  Then  we  also  left  the  car, 
and  my  escort  made  me  take  his  arm  as  we  walked  through 
the  long  station.  He  signalled  imperatively  to  one  car- 
riage-driver and  motioned  the  others  away.  In  a  moment  I 
was  on  the  seat  of  a  close  carriage,  Mr.  Maverick  was  sit- 
ting opposite  me,  and  we  were  going  rapidly,  in  and  out, 
among  a  thousand  other  vehicles;  the  city  was  roaring  all 
around  us;  I  was  in  New  York. 

"You  were  never  here  before?"  Mr.  Maverick  leaned 
very  near  me  that  I  might  hear  what  he  said  ;  and  he  smiled 
right  into  my  eyes,  in  a  curious  way,  that  struck  me  even 
then. 

"  Oh  no,"  I  answered.  "  But,  then,  I've  never  been  any- 
where— only  to  Mount  Holyoke,"  and  I  laughed  excitedly. 

He  laughed  also,  with  a  kind  of  good  comradeship  that 
was  delightful.  He  talked  with  me  now  and  then,  for  the 
drive  lasted  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  thought  we 
must  come  to  the  end  of  New  York  very  soon.  Mr.  Maver- 
ick's manner  was  not  in  the  least  condescending;  it  had  a 
genial  deference  and  half-veiled  admiration  which  made  him 
charming.  I  felt  that  he  was  not  bored  by  being  with  an 
ignorant  girl. 

At  last  we  turned  away  from  the  noise  and  crowd  of 
Broadway  —  Mr.  Maverick  said  it  was  Broadway  —  into  a 


"long  live  the  king!"  207 

still  wider  thoroughfare,  where  it  was  almost  quiet,  arid 
where  the  brown  houses  stood  tall  on  each  side.  Then  we 
stopped  at  a  taller,  larger  building  than  the  others.  The 
carriage  door  was  banged  open.  We  entered  a  beautiful 
room,  where  there  seemed  no  effect  of  roof,  it  was  up  so 
high.  There  were  pictures  on  panels,  a  half-light,  a  half- 
sound  of  I  know  not  what. 

People  moving,  some  of  them  bowing  and  smiling  to  Mr. 
Maverick  and  just  glancing  at  me.  But  wre  did  not  linger 
here.  We  entered  an  elevator  and  stepped  out  into  an 
upper  hall,  only  less  grand  than  the  place  we  had  left. 
My  companion  knocked  at  a  door,  which  was  immediately 
opened  by  Bathsheba  Hildreth,  who  reached  forward,  took 
my  hand,  and  pulled  me  in  quickly,  kissing  me  and  saying : 

"  Howdy,  Billy  ?     So  you've  come,  have  you  ?" 

Bashy' s  face  was  pale  and  tired ;  there  were  dark  circles 
under  her  eyes,  but  she  seemed  alert  and  bright.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  gay,  soft  wool  wrapper,  which  swept  about  on 
the  thick  carpet.  She  just  nodded  to  Mr.  Maverick,  who 
said  he  hoped  that  Miss  Runciman  had  not  gone  out.  Be- 
fore Bashy  could  reply  Miss  Runciman  herself  came  from 
a  connecting  room.  As  she  came  forward  Mr.  Maverick 
bowed  and  went  away.  Miss  Runciman  kissed  me,  then 
she  stepped  back  and  looked  intently  at  me.  She  also  had 
dark  circles  under  her  eyes,  and  she  was  pallid. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said,  interrogatively.     "  Have  you  worked  ?" 

I  could  truthfully  say  I  had  worked,  and  I  added,  "  But  I 
don't  know  whether  I  do  well  or  not." 

"Oh,  aunt,  Billy's  one  of  the  conscientious  kind,  isn't 
she  ?"  remarked  Bashy.  "  Why  don't  you  tell  her  what  the 
Signor  says  about  her  ?"    The  Signor  was  my  singing-master. 

"  He  says  he  is  proud  of  you,"  said  Miss  Runciman, 
promptly. 


2o8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"Oh,  does  he?"  I  exclaimed,  feeling  my  cheeks  flush. 
"He  never  praises  me  —  he  has  told  me  that  my  singing 
was  not  entirely  execrable." 

Bashy  laughed. 

"That's  like  him.  He  was  afraid  you'd  relax  your  ef- 
forts." 

"When  you  have  rested  111  try  your  voice,"  said  Miss 
Runciman. 

I  sat  down  in  one  of  the  big  soft  chairs  that  seemed  to 
embrace  me.  Bashy  sat  down  near,  and  clasped  her  hands 
over  her  head,  questioning  me.  I  did  not  know  why  it  was, 
but  I  felt  a  sense  of  disappointment.  But  what  had  I  ex- 
pected? I  could  hardly  bring  my  mind  to  listen  to  the 
girl  who  was  asking  me  this  and  that.  I  replied  so  me- 
chanically that  she  suddenly  inquired  where  I  was.  Then 
I  roused  myself.  I  felt  mother's  letter  in  my  gown.  A  ;'•  t- 
ing  wish  that  I  had  given  up  all  this  and  gone  home  came 
to  me.  I  heard  Bashy  say  that  her  brother  was  rubbing  up 
his  voice  again  ;  it  had  become  rusty.  "  But  it's  better 
than  ever  now,"  she  asserted,  "  and  sometimes  he  walks  a 
bit  with  only  a  cane."  She  did  not  say  where  he  was,  and 
I  did  not  ask.  I  wondered  if  he  had  told  about  coming  to 
the  Holloway  house  ;  and  for  fear  he  had  not  done  so,  and 
that  it  should  be  discovered  as  if  it  had  been  a  secret,  I 
said : 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Hildreth  to  come  out  to  see 
how  I  was  getting  on." 

"  Mercy  !"  exclaimed  Bashy.  "  You  don't  mean  that  Vane 
has  been  to  Lally's  Falls  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered, boldly,  "and  I  thought  it  was  so  kind 
of  him."     Bashy  turned. 

"Aunt  Nora,"  she  called,  "Vane  has  been  to  Lally's 
Falls  to  see  Billy." 


•"LONG    LIVE    THE    KING!"  200, 

■•Has  he?"  in  an  indifferent  tone,  but  I  thought  that 
Miss  Runciman  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

•■  Yes.  and  how  odd  that  he  didn't  mention  the  fact?*' 

Here  Bashy  contemplated  me  with  open  curiosity,  as  I 
remarked  that  he  probably  had  not  thought  of  his  visit. 
Bashv  girled.  "  Not  thought  of  it !"  she  exclaimed. 
'"Pray  how  long  was  he  there?" 

"Really,  I  can't  remember  just  now,"  I  replied. 

■•  More  than  one  day  ?" 

••Yes." 

"  "More  than  two  days  ?" 

i;Ohyes." 

Mercy  !     Aunt  Xora,'?  turning  again, :i  Billy  thinks  Vane 
was  at  Lallv's  Falls  more  than  two  days." 

"Very  well,*'  with  the  same  indifference. 

"  Hasn't  he  been  secret  about  it,  though  ?  Was  he  there 
a  week  ?" 

-Yes." 

Bashy  glanced  apprehensively  at  her  aunt,  who  was  at 
some  distance  in  the  large  room. 

••  Xow.  I  want  to  know  one  thing,"  she  went  on  in  a  whis- 
per, ;"  and  you  might  just  as  well  tell  me  as  not.  Did  Yane 
make  love  to  you  there  ?" 

I  was  somewhat  prepared  for  the  question,  so  I  laughed 
and  answered,  "  Find  out,  if  you  can,"  and  then  I  felt  very 
flippant,  and  quite  ashamed  of  myself.  I  would  not  have 
replied  in  that  way  if  I  had  supposed  there  had  been  real 
seriousness  in  Vane's  "love-making." 

••  Certainly  I  shall  find  out,"  she  responded,  and  I  thought 
she  was  going  to  say  something  about  her  brother's  tenden- 
cies in  the  direction  of  making  love  to  different  women. 
But  she  did  not.  She  sat  gazing  seriously  before  her  and 
kept  silent. 


2io  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

The  next  night  the  Runciman  Opera  Company  began 
their  season  in  New  York.  They  began  with  La  Sonnam- 
bula,  and  Miss  Runciman  commanded  me  to  sit  in  a  box 
and  watch  and  listen.  She  said  that  I  must  sit  in  the  rear 
of  the  box,  and  that  I  must  keep  behind  backs.  There 
were  two  older  women  who  occupied  the  box  with  me.  I 
obeyed.  I  sat  behind  backs,  but  I  saw  and  heard  every- 
thing. It  was  my  first  opera.  I  heard  Mr.  Maverick,  and 
Bashy,  and  Leonora  Runciman.  On  the  whole,  I  have  de- 
cided not  to  try  to  tell  what  that  first  evening  was  to  me, 
knowing  how  I  should  fail  in  the  attempt.  I  was  cold  and 
prostrated  at  the  end  of  it.  When  I  was  sitting  with  Bashy 
and  her  aunt  in  the  carriage  later  I  did  not  wish  to  speak. 
Miss  Runciman,  when  we  reached  her  rooms  at  the  hotel, 
drew  me  towards  her.     She  looked  at  me  keenly. 

"  I  don't  want  any  of  your  praises,"  she  said,  "  but  what 
is  your  criticism  of  me  ?  You'll  tell  the  truth,  because  you 
can't  help  it.  Your  criticism  ?"  I  hesitated.  This  woman 
had  carried  me  to  heights  I  had  never  dreamed  of  —  she 
had  made  me  live  within  the  last  few  hours.  "Your  criti- 
cism ?"  she  repeated,  harshly. 

I  opened  my  lips — she  was  actually  pale  as  she  waited. 
It  was  very  hard  for  me  to  say  what  I  did  say. 

"  Sometimes  your  voice  seemed  to  be — to  have — oh,  a 
kind  of  thread  in  it — your  breath  trembled  across  some- 
thing— oh,  you  make  me  tell  it !" 

"  Certainly  I  make  you  tell  it." 

Miss  Runciman  turned  away  and  sat  down.  She  put  a 
hand  up  across  her  eyes.  I  followed  her  and  stood  close 
beside  her.  I  was  suffering  with  her.  At  first  she  did  not 
seem  to  notice  me.  I  heard  her  say  to  herself :  "  I  knew 
it !     I  knew  it !" 

After  a  moment  I  whispered :   "  Why  did  you  make  me 


"LONG    LIVE    THE    KING!"  211 

tell  you  ?  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  say  it !  and  you  were  glori- 
ous, magnificent — I  can't  tell  how  you  affected  me.  I  did 
not  know  I  could  feel  so  much !" 

Miss  Runciman  tried  to  smile.  She  looked  up  at  me. 
"My  little  Yankee  girl,"  she  said,  softly,  "you  enjoyed, 
and  thrilled,  and  criticised  at  the  same  time.  I'll  wager 
you  caught  every  false  note,  every  untrue  phrasing  there 
was  perpetrated  through  the  whole  opera.  I  knew  your 
ear  was  marvellously  accurate,  and  your  judgment  is  unvi- 
tiated.  You  are  to  hear  opera  in  the  back  of  that  box 
every  night  this  week.  Every  morning  the  Signor  is  to 
drill  you  in  Trovatore.  Are  you  brave  ?  Are  you  going  to 
shrink  ?" 

I  said  I  was  brave,  and  I  was  not  going  to  shrink.  I  did 
not  tremble ;  I  was  tense.  Give  up  trying  to  be  a  singer 
because  mother  had  fancies  ?  Miss  Runciman  smiled  with 
indescribable  bitterness. 

"  If  I  ever  relinquish  my  crown  I  give  it  to  one  whom  I 
have  chosen,"  she  said,  not  to  me  apparently.  "  But," 
turning  towards  me,  "you  needn't  expect  that  I  can  love 
you.  What  king  ever  loves  the  heir- apparent  ?  I  don't 
mean  to  hate  you,  if  I  can  help  it,  and  perhaps  you'll 
fail." 

A  fire  seemed  to  go  through  my  very  bones.  I  stiffened 
myself  straight.  "No,"  I  said,  fiercely,  "I  shall  not 
fail." 

Miss  Runciman's  eyes  shot  a  swift  glance  of  interroga- 
tion.     '  Not  fail?"     She  rose  quickly. 

"  I  am  the  count,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  Leonora. 
You  know  the  scene."     She  sang  : 

"My  whole  desire  is  for  vengeance.     Go!" 
She  made  a  gesture  of  command,  and   drew  back   as   I 


212  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

dropped  on  my  knees  at  her  feet.  I  burst  out  into  that 
agonized  appeal  of  Leonora's  : 

"Witness  the  tears  of  agony 
Here,  at  thy  feet,  now  raining." 

How  old  and  time-worn  the  solo  seems  to  me  as  I  write, 
but  it  still  moves  me,  it  always  will  move  me  as  long  as  I 
have  ears  to  hear  it.  I  sang  it  now  with  a  very  passion  of 
appeal.  I  gave  myself  up  to  its  anguished  supplication, 
but  I  was  conscious  every  instant  of  something  in  me  that 
governed  every  note  of  my  voice,  every  enunciation.  After- 
wards I  was  told  that  that  something  was  the  "artistic 
sense."  Possibly  it  was  ;  I  know  it  was  something  that  I 
was  obliged  to  obey  as  a  boat  obeys  the  rudder.  'While  I 
gave  myself  up,  I  yet  controlled  myself.  I  forgot  to  won- 
der whether  my  listener  would  approve.  She  had  drawn 
further  away,  and  was  standing  with  her  hands  resting  on 
the  back  of  a  chair,  gazing  down  at  me. 

"But  spare   the  Troubadour!" 

I  sang,  and  I  knew  that  my  heart  had  gone  into  the  words. 
I  rose  to  my  feet.  I  pressed  my  hands  on  my  bosom,  and 
I  felt  there  my  mother's  letter.  Miss  Runciman  did  not 
move ;  she  stood  looking  at  me  over  the  chair.  When  she 
spoke  she  used  the  same  words  she  had  used  on  that  early 
morning  when  the  gale  had  blown  against  the  house  carriage 
on  the  Massachusetts  coast:  "The  king  is  dead;  long  live 
the  king  !" 

After  a  moment  she  added,  "  I  am  satisfied  with  you. 
You  will  have  some  technicalities  to  overcome — you  may 
seem  fresher  to  jaded-  opera-goers  if  you  never  overcome 
them.      I'm   sure  you   have   the   essentials.     And  you   are 


"long  live  the  king!  213 

new.  and  young  —  young!  Now  go.  I  hope  I  shall  not 
hate  you.  It  would  be  wicked  in  me  to  hate  a  girl  with  a 
violin  face — the  very  girl  I  selected.  Why  don't  you  go  ?" 
A  great  wave  of  pity  had  come  over  me.  I  obeyed  the 
impulse  that  urged  me  to  go  to  the  woman  and  put  my  arms 
about  her  neck.     "  Oh,  forgive  me  !!'  I  whispered. 


XIII 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  " 


The  week  passed  so  quickly  that  I  was  bewildered. 
Every  morning  at  eleven  I  went  to  the  Signor,  who  scolded 
and  scolded,  and  drilled  and  drilled,  and  always  it  was 
Leonora.  He  never  praised.  Rarely  he  would  say,  "  Not 
quite  execrable."  I  felt  that  I  was  getting  so  that  I  did 
not  know  anything  clearly.  I  have  never  been  certain 
that  those  mornings  with  the  Signor  were  of  benefit  to  me; 
they  gave  me  such  a  conviction  that  I  was  more  of  a  machine 
than  anything  else.  But  I  used  to  recall  what  I  had  been 
told  in  the  last  summer :  "  First  be  as  accurate  as  a 
machine/'  So  I  submitted,  on  the  whole,  gladly.  Every 
evening  I  was  in  the  rear  of  that  box  at  the  theatre  listen- 
ing and  watching — ah,  how  I  did  listen  and  watch !  I  found 
that  Bathsheba,  though  an  unreliable  singer,  was  frequently 
a  very  telling  one,  and  that  she  had  many  admirers.  Mav- 
erick sang  superbly,  but  there  were  moments  when  his  voice 
showed  how  much  he  had  used  it,  and  when  he  did  not 
quite  rise  to  the  occasion.  His  stage  presence,  however, 
always  had  the  effect  of  great  and  magnificent  success,  and 
was  confusing  to  one  not  versed  in  the  technicalities  of 
vocal  performance. 

As  for  me,  you  may  be  sure  I  was  screwed  up  to  a  pitch 
where  everything  vibrated  across  my  nerves.  But  I  had 
never  felt  so  strong  in  my  life,  nor  so  capable  of  accom- 
plishing whatever  I  should  undertake. 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  215 

Tl  Trovatore  was  announced  for  the  Monday  night  fol- 
lowing this  week,  and  of  course  Miss  Runciman  was  ad- 
vertised as  the  Leonora.  On  that  afternoon  she  ordered 
a  rehearsal  of  the  whole  thing,  an  order  that  was  obeyed 
with  some  grumbling,  as  the  company  had  been  playing  the 
opera  in  every  city  where  it  had  stopped  through  the  win- 
ter. Miss  Runciman  came  to  me  as  soon  as  we  had  left 
the  dining-room  of  the  hotel. 

"  You  are  to  rehearse  in  my  place  this  afternoon,"  she 
said.     I  bent  my  head.     It  was  my  duty  to  obey. 

"And  now  I  wish  you  to  listen  to  what  I  tell  you:  You 
are  not  to  sing  out  fully;  go  through  everything  so  that  the 
rest  of  them  will  not  know  how  you  can  sing.  That's  my 
whim.     Will  you  do  so  ?" 

Again  I  assented. 

"  You  may  be  called  upon  suddenly  to  take  my  place.  I 
may  have  a  cold— a  sore  throat — a  fever — the  cholera'1 — 
here  the  speaker  paused  to  laugh  with  the  bitterness  which 
was  often  in  her  manner  of  late.-  "You  are  summoned. 
You  do  as  well  as  you  can  in  the  emergency.  It  is  also  my 
whim  to  have  you  do  this.     That  is  all.     No — come  back." 

I  returned. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid — but  I  mean  to  do  the  best  I  can,  all 
the  same." 

I  knew  that  my  voice  trembled  as  I  spoke.  Miss  Runci- 
man's  eyes,  somewhat  hard,  were  fixed  on  my  face  as  she 
asked,  carelessly : 

"  Have  you  ever  told  me  what  you  think  of  Mr.  Maver- 
ick ?" 

I  don't  know  precisely  what  I  replied.  Something  in  the 
woman's  manner  confused  and  perplexed  me.  She  walked 
away  and  I  left  the  room. 


2l6  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

On  the  Monday  evening  I  was  in  Miss  Runciman's  dress- 
ing-room at  the  theatre.  She  turned  me  about  and  exam- 
ined me.  Then  she  bade  Bashy,  who  was  with  us,  pencil 
my  brows,  and  "  bring  out  my  eyes  "  more.  I  submitted, 
but  I  was  rebellious  inwardly.  I  did  refuse  to  have  the 
carmine  put  on  my  lips,  but  I  am  not  aware  of  the  reason 
why  I  drew  a  line  there. 

I  had  passed  through  the  rehearsal — how,  I  did  not  know. 
The  members  of  the  troupe  had  been  curious,  but  had  not 
snubbed  me  very  much.  Oddly  enough  the  person  who 
seemed  to  despise  me  unspeakably  was  Leonora's  attendant, 
Inez.  All  of  us  rather  walked  through  our  parts,  so  that 
my  very  inadequate  singing  was  not  peculiar,  but  we  per- 
formed the  stage  business. 

And  now  it  was  evening.  Miss  Runciman  again  drew 
me  to  one  side.  The  opera  had  already  begun.  Ferrando 
and  the  soldiers  wrere  on  the  stage.  We  could  hear  them 
singing,  and  tramping  back  and  forth.  It  would  require 
some  time  for  Ferrando  to  relate  the  story  of  the  gypsy. 
Bashy  was  in  the  garb  of  Azucena,  her  face  a  dark  brown, 
big  rings  in  her  ears,  a  gay  but  dingy  costume  making  her 
picturesque. 

In  a  lull,  from  where  we  now  stood,  I  could  detect  the 
occasional  clatter  of  seats  swung  down  for  late  comers. 
All  through  the  air  wras  that  peculiar  odor  of  cigar  smoke 
and  perfume  and  brandy  and  coffee  which  pervades  be- 
hind the  scenes.  Perhaps  it  was  not  brandy,  but  it  smelled 
like  it.  Miss  Runciman  herself  frequently  drank  a  cup  of 
scalding  hot  bouillon  when  she  came  from  a  particularly 
exhausting  scene. 

"You  are  to  stay  where  you'll  see  and  hear  me  all  the 
time,"  she  said.  "I  mean  to  sing  my  part  until  Act  II. 
Then,  without  any  announcement,  you  will  fill  my  place  in 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  217 

the  cloister  of  the  convent.  You  are  about  to  take  the  veil. 
You  know  the  whole.  From  that  to  the  end  it  is  you  who 
are  Leonora.  Now  let  us  see  what  the  public  will  say.  Are 
you  calm  ?    I  mean,  are  you  so  excited  that  you  are  calm  ?"' 

She  put  her  finger  on  my  cold  wrist.  I  don't  know  how 
the  pulse  beat  there,  but  she  smiled.  I  obeyed  her  to  the 
letter.  I  had  never  heard  her  sing  so  divinely,  or  seen  her 
act  so  magnificently.  How  she  sang  that  first  solo  ! — and 
the  warmth,  the  ardent  sadness  of  the  "Of  love  like  this!'' 
A  blackness  came  over  me  at  thought  that  I  was  to  go  on 
after  her.  The  audience  applauded  vigorously— again  and 
again.  Bouquets  came  —  she  bowed  and  bowed.  I  could 
see  her  eyes  shine  with  triumph.  Perhaps  she  would  change 
her  mind  and  continue  through  the  opera.  But  no.  She 
was  at  my  side  at  the  moment.  I  was  strung  on  steel. 
The  Count  had  given  his  "  Oh,  fatal  hour !"  The  nuns 
were  singing  within  the  convent.  I  had  on  the  white  gown 
and  veil.  I  was  sorry  it  was  Inez  who  was  my  companion. 
The  voices  of  the  nuns  ceased.  Miss  Runciman  was  still 
with  me  in  what  seemed,  from  the  audience,  to  be  the  con- 
vent. 

"  Courage  !"  she  whispered.  I  moved  forward,  the  attend- 
ant Inez  a  pace  in  the  rear.  She  seemed  to  be  shedding 
tears.  Again  I  heard  Miss  Runciman  whisper  sharply, 
"  Courage !" 

Inez  and  I  went  down  the  convent  steps  on  to  the  stage. 
I  turned  towards  her  and  sang,  "Why  art  thou  weeping?" 
There  is  very  little  in  this  question.  I  had  hoped  I 
should  not  be  in  the  least  aware  of  the  audience ;  I  had 
hoped  that  the  glare  of  the  footlights  would  make  a  wall 
of  fire  between  me  and  the  people  beyond.  Inez  sang  her 
answer.  Then  I  went  on.  I  was  conscious  of  a  stir  and 
rustle  in  the  semi-darkness  where  the  crowd  sat.    But  when 


2l8  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

the  Count  "  enters   suddenly,"  I  forgot  the    people,  as   I 
had  wished  to  do. 

When  Maverick  as  Manrico  led  me  off  the  stage  and 
the  curtain  went  down,  I  became  aware  that  there  was 
a  curious  and  perplexed  hesitancy  beyond  that  curtain. 
Maverick  retained  my  hand  and  kissed  it  warmly.  But 
before  he  could  speak  there  came  a  thunderous  sound  be- 
yond.    It  continued. 

"We  must  go,"  he  whispered.  Then  he  led  me  outside. 
The  lights  were  up  now — there  was  one  great  flame  before 
my  eyes,  and  in  that  flame  I  saw  what  seemed  to  be  thou- 
sands, but  what  were  really  only  a  few  score  opera-glasses 
levelled  at  me. 

"  Bow — bow  deeply  !"  said  my  companion. 

I  did  so. 

"Again — again  !" 

I  obeyed.  Bashy  had  drilled  me  in  that  profound  cour- 
tesy, but  I  was  aware  that  I  did  it  very  awkwardly. 

Something  came  sweeping  from  one  of  the  boxes  at  my 
left.  I  saw  a  woman  fling  it — it  was  a  bunch  of  red  roses 
that  she  had  been  holding.  Maverick  picked  up  the  flow- 
ers and  presented  them  to  me  deferentially.  I  felt  so 
wretched  all  at  once  that  it  seemed  as  if  I  should  never 
get  back  behind  the  curtain  without  tumbling  over  my 
white  train.  But  my  companion  caught  up  the  trailing 
folds  of  the  gown  in  which  I  had  been  about  to  become 
the  bride  of  the  Church. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  congratulate  you,"  he  said 
in  an  undertone,  and  he  looked  at  me  with  a  lingering 
glance.  I  hurried  to  Miss  Runciman's  dressing  -  room. 
She  sat  there  alone,  with  a  fur  cloak  wrapped  about  her. 
She  was  ghastly  white,  and  not  by  reason  of  powder,  I 
thought. 


FAREWELL,  LEONORA 


219 


"  I  heard  them,"  she  said.  I  put  the  bunch  of  roses  on 
the  table  among  the  rouge  and  paints. 

"And  I  heard  and  saw  you,"  she  went  on.  "You  com- 
mitted a  dozen  solecisms,  but  you  sang  —  oh  yes,  you 
sang."  I  could  make  no  response.  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  the  reaction. 

"  Pull  off  that  gown,  put  on  a  wrapper,  and  lie  on  the 
couch  there,  or  the  next  scene  will  kill  you.  You  know  it's 
Azucena's  turn  now." 

I  was  glad  enough  to  do  as  she  bid  me.  I  stretched  my- 
self out  on  the  couch  and  lay  motionless.  After  a  while  I 
was  able  to  draw  a  deep  breath  and  to  relax  somewhat. 
But  I  could  not  really  rest — until  the  work  was  done.  Miss 
Runciman  did  not  speak  again,  and  I  began  to  go  over  and 
over  in  my  mind  what  I  had  yet  to  do. 

In  recalling  that  night  my  memory  now  goes  straight  to 
what  happened  later.  You  will  remember  that  Leonora's 
next  appearance  is  in  the  tower  scene.  In  a  clinging  black 
gown,  with  a  cloak  about  me,  I  enter  with  Ruiz.  I  must 
have  sung  "On  rosy  wings  of  love"  with  more  or  less  of 
a  mechanical  effort,  for  I  cannot  remember  anything  about 
it.  I  only  know  that  I  must  have  sung  it,  and  that  I  ought 
to  have  made  much  of  it.  It  has  gone  out  of  my  mind, 
perhaps,  because  of  what  occurred  after. 

When  Manrico  in  the  tower  began  to  sing,  my  pulses 
leaped  and  then  would  not  go  on — at  least,  I  thought  that 
they  would  not  go  on.  I  gasped  in  that  first  intent  moment 
of  listening.  It  was  not  Maverick  singing  there  invisibly. 
It  was  that  voice  which  somebody  had  said  was  like  the 
odor  of  the  jasmine.  When  it  had  finished  singing  "Fare- 
well, love ;  farewell,  Leonora,"  there  was  no  acting  at  all 
in  my  wailing  forth  that  "faintness  o'erpowers  me." 

If  the  singing  of  the  chorus  within  had  not  given  me  a 


220  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

little  time,  I  could  not  have  gone  on  with  my  part;  but 
somehow  I  did  go  on  with  it,  and  then  came  the  long-famous 
solo  of  Manrico  in  the  tower.  My  very  heart  was  drawn 
out  of  me — that  is  a  figure  of  speech  that  but  poorly  hints 
at  the  emotion  I  felt  as  I  knelt  there  in  my  black  gown, 
alone  in  the  middle  of  the  darkened  stage,  and  listened  to 
Vane  Hildreth — for  it  was  Vane  who  was  singing  to  me, 
calling  me  his  love,  and  bidding  me  farewell.  I  wonder 
if  that  solo  has  ever  been  sung  with  a  more  solemn  and 
passionate  fervor.  I  was  young  and  unsophisticated ;  per- 
haps now  I  would  not  feel  as  I  did  then,  but  my  soul  was 
in  my  tones  as  I  burst  out,  "  Can  I  forget  ?"  And  then  at 
the  end  the  audience  literally  rose  at  us.  We  had  to  do 
it  all  over  again.  I  saw  the  white  handkerchiefs  waving,  I 
heard  the  applause,  and  I  remember  but  hazily  how  I  per- 
formed my  part  with  the  Count.  The  next  thing  that  stands 
out  distinctly  is  my  walking  uncertainly  off  the  stage  after 
my  compact  with  Di  Luna,  and  at  the  wing  a  man  catching 
my  hands  and  drawing  me  to  him. 

Vane  was  in  his  ordinary  dress.  He  stood  there  waiting 
for  me.  He  pulled  me  back  into  the  dusk,  saying  as  he  did 
so,  sharply  and  huskily  : 

"  How  much  do  you  think  I  can  bear  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  answered,  breathlessly. 

"Don't  know!  Did  you  fancy  I  could  let  that  cursed 
Maverick  sing  the  tower  song  to  you  ?  Dear  Billy  !  Dear- 
est !  Don't  you  love  me  any  ?  Not  any  ?  Oh,  my  darling  ! 
My  darling!"  He  kissed  me,  and  I  clung  to  him.  I  must 
have  clung  to  him,  for  the  next  instant  I  started  away  with 
a  sensation  of  fright  at  what  I  had  done.  His  face  in  the 
gloom  where  we  stood  was  brilliant  enough  to  have  illu- 
minated the  dusk. 

"  Dearest !"  he  murmured  again. 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  221 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Maverick  ?"  I  asked,  quickly.  "  How  did 
you  keep  him  away  ?"     Vane  laughed  slightly. 

"  Oh,  he  was  detained  ;  I  arranged  that,  and  then  I  ran 
up  the  steps  to  that  grating  in  the  tower  ;  and  when  I  began 
to  sing  he  couldn't  very  well  help  himself.  He'll  have  to 
finish,  though— he'll  be  singing  in  the  cell  with  Bashy  in  a 
few  minutes.  I  suppose  he'll  want  to  cut  my  throat.  But 
he  can't  do  it.  To  think  that  I  couldn't  sing  with  you  first ! 
Bashy  told  me  that  you  were  going  to  take  Aunt  Nora's 
place,  and  then  I  thought  I'd  play  a  small  trick  myself,  and 
Bashy  helped  me.  Bashy' s  a  trump,  anyway.  Let  me  put 
you  into  the  carriage  when  the  thing  is  done.  There,  they  re 
at  it  in  the  cell.  Hear  Maverick !  Oh,  he  must  be  furi- 
ous !     But  no  matter  if  he  is." 

"  I  must  go,"  I  said  the  next  moment.  I  wanted  to  get 
away  from  him,  and  from  myself.  Vane  held  my  hand 
tightly  ;  two  "  supes  "  hurried  by  us.  When  they  had  gone 
Vane  said  : 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  must  go.  You  must  rest  for  the  last 
scene.     But— dear  Billy — you  love  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  love  you." 

It  was  said;  and  now  I  wondered  that  I  had  not  said  it 
before.  Vane's  eyes  flashed  a  soft  fire ;  his  whole  aspect 
was  so  eager,  so  intense,  that  I  drew  away  from  him,  whis- 
pering swiftly : 

"  Some  one  will  come.  I  must  go."  I  darted  down  a 
dim  alley,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  in  Miss  Runciman's 
dressing-room.  She  was  in  street  costume  now,  and  was 
sitting  back  in  a  large  chair. 

The  sight  of  her  brought  to  me  as  in  a  vivid  bar  of  light 
the  recollection  of  what  she  had  said  about  Vane's  ten- 
dency to  fall  in  love,  and  now  he  fancied  he  was  in  love 
with  me.     I  became  suddenly  cold.     I  sank  down  on  the 


22  2  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

lounge,  and  hoped  that  she  would  not  speak.  But  she  did 
speak. 

"  How  happened  Vane  to  sing,  then  ?" 

She  put  the  question  abruptly  and  sternly.  It  did  not 
seem  quite  truthful  to  say  I  did  not  know. 

I  began :  "  He  said  he  wanted  to  sing  with — with  me." 

"It  was  unwarrantable !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  shall  tell 
him  so.  And  I'm  sorry  he  is  amusing  himself  with  you. 
He  always  has  such  a  way  of  seeming  in  earnest."  She 
said  no  more. 

I  turned  my  head  aside.  As  I  sat  there  in  the  dressing- 
room,  in  the  midst  of  paint  and  powder  and  silken  and 
velvet  garments,  recalling  Vane's  words  and  glances,  there 
suddenly  unrolled  before  me,  with  absolute  clearness,  the 
picture  of  the  farm-house  at  home — the  sunlight  upon  the 
river  path  and  the  orchard,  and  myself  kneeling  by  mother's 
side.  I  heard  her  saying:  "  The  Lord  will  come  on  pillars 
of  white  fire." 

I  wanted  to  put  my  hands  over  my  face  and  sob.  You 
will  not  wonder  that  I  was  excited. 

"It  is  time  for  you  to  get  ready  to  go  on,"  said  Miss 
Runciman,  coldly.  "You  must  be  a  ghastly,  blue  white. 
Come  here  and  I  will  make  you  up." 

The  next  day  Bashy  spent  an  hour  in  looking  through  the 
morning  papers  for  criticisms.  She  made  merry  over  them. 
She  read  me  brief  extracts.  One  critic  said  I  could  not 
sing,  but  might  learn  to  act ;  another  that  I  could  not  act, 
but  might  learn  to  sing;  and  so  on.  In  one  thing  all  the 
papers  were  unanimous ;  that  I  was  a  novice  who  must 
study  a  long  time  if  I  wished  to  be  a  real  prima  donna,  and 
one  writer  had  the  kindness  to  say  that  "though  the  public 
must  regret  the  severe  and  sudden  illness  of  Miss  Runci- 
man, the  public  was  grateful  that  she  had  had  so  promising 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  22$ 

a  protegee  to  put  forward  last  evening."  Then  followed  a 
tale  about  my  having  been  found  by  the  prima  donna  play- 
ing a  tambourine  and  singing  in  a  Southern  city.  I  took 
the  paper  to  Miss  Runciman  and  asked  her  if  she  would 
contradict  some  things. 

"  Why  should  I  ?"  she  responded. 

"  Because  they  are  not  true,"  I  answered,  hotly.  "  And 
you  were  not  ill  last  night." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  contradict,"  she  said. 

"But  they're  not  true."  As  I  spoke  these  words  again 
my  companion's  face,  turned  towards  me,  showed  an  in- 
tense dislike.  I  shrank  away  a  little.  Did  she  really  dis- 
like me  ?     Was  she  tired  of  her  whim  ? 

"  No,"  she  went  on,  "  I'll  not  try  to  make  any  change  in 
the  story,  since  it  was  I  who  gave  it  to  the  reporter." 

"You?" 

"  Certainly.  The  dear  public,  for  some  reason,  seem  to 
prefer  that  an  opera  singer  should  first  have  been  a  tam- 
bourine girl.  It  is  a  favorite  notion.  Now,  Billy,  do  you 
want  to  hear  a  few  truths  ?" 

I  did  not  answer.  I  stood  gazing  at  my  companion,  who, 
somehow,  seemed  to  be  some  one  else,  and  not  the  woman 
who  had  come  to  my  home  and  taken  a  fancy  that  she 
would  have  me  taught  to  sing. 

"They  say,"  she  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "  that  truths  are 
always  salutary,  even  if  not  pleasant;  that's  why  I  don't 
like  them.  Perhaps  you  think,  because  the  audience  ap- 
plauded you  last  night,  that  you  are  already  a  diva.  Well, 
you  are  not.  The  people  were  surprised  into  applause  be- 
cause you  are  young  and  new ;  and  you  did  sing  well  part 
of  the  time.  Yes,  you  have  a  voice,  and  dramatic  instincts. 
If  you  will  go  abroad  and  study  four  or  five  years,  say  with 
Marchesi,  you    may  become  a  prima   donna.     But   in   five 


224 


IN   THE    FIRST    PERSON 


years,  since  you  are  now  almost  twenty-four,  you  will  be 
quite  an  old  lady.  I've  been  thinking  over  things.  I'm 
not  going  to  give  up  yet.  I  shall  sing  to-night.  The 
chances  are  that  the  next  time  you  were  heard  the  audience 
wouldn't  raise  a  hand  in  applause.  But  you  may  try  it,  if 
you  choose.  We  give  //  Trovatore  next  week.  I'll  let  you 
take  Leonora  if  you  wish." 

As  she  ceased  speaking  Miss  Runciman  reached  forward 
and  took  up  a  paper,  running  her  eyes  over  the  columns,  as 
if  my  decision  as  regarded  Leonora  was  of  no  special  mo- 
ment to  her.  I  stood  there  trying  to  speak.  She  was  tired 
of  me ;  she  was  sorry  that  she  had  ever  meddled  with  me. 
She  had  told  the  truth  when  she  had  announced  herself 
as  a  woman  of  whims.  Why  is  it  that  you  always  believe 
that,  though  others  may  be  the  object  of  a  fickle  notice, 
you  may  not  be  ?  There  is  something  in  you  that  will 
make  interest  permanent?  I  did  not  know  I  had  felt  thus, 
but  I  know  it  now. 

At  last  I  gave  up  the  attempt  to  find  any  words.  I  turned 
away  and  walked  to  the  door.  There  I  paused.  I  remem- 
bered that  Miss  Runciman  had  spent  what  seemed  to  my 
mind  a  great  deal  of  money  upon  me.  I  went  back  to  my 
former  position  in  front  of  her.     She  looked  up. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  think  my  father  will  pay  you  back — "  I  began  abruptly. 
I  was  burning  with  anger  now,  and  I  could  hardly  speak 
steadily.  She  made  no  reply.  Her  eyes  returned  to  her 
paper.  In  the  face  of  this  silence  I  could  not  say  anything 
more.  But  I  did  stammer  out  something  to  the  effect  that 
perhaps  I  could  earn  the  money  myself  in  time.  Then  I 
left  the  room.  In  half  an  hour  more  I  was  stepping  into 
the  elevator  with  my  satchel  in  my  hand,  my  hat  and  jacket 
on.      Bashy  was  just  stepping  out,  having  come  in  from 


FAREWELL,  LEONORA  2  2 


3 


the  street.  She  glanced  at  me,  then  turned  and  resumed 
her  place. 

"  Have  you  killed  anybody  ?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper  as 
we  began  to  slide  downward.     I  shook  my  head. 

-What,  then?1' 

••  I'm  going  home." 

She  gazed  at  me  in  silence  for  an  instant,  then  she 
gripped  my  hand  and  exclaimed  : 

••  I  knew  Aunt  Xora  could  not  stand  it  !" 

"  Street  floor  !"  announced  the  boy. 

We  walked  to  the  entrance. 

';  Couldn't  stand  what  ?""  I  managed  to  ask. 

"  The  promise  of  your  being  a  better  singer  than  she  ever 
was.  Oh,  dear !  I'm  so  sorry  !  But  it  was  sure  to  come. 
The  fact  is,  the  person  who  depends  upon  Aunt  Xora  is — 
well,  is  lost.  And  she  begins  so  sincerely,  and  is  just  love- 
Iv.  Are  you  going  to  take  a  street-car?  I'll  go  to  the  sta- 
tion with  you." 

In  the  car  Bashy  sat  by  me,  and  I  forgot  that  I  had  not 
at  first  received  a  good  impression  of  her,  and  had  thought 
her  sharp  teeth  looked  ready  to  bite. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  she  said  two  or  three  times.  "Do 
you  know,"  speaking  into  my  ear  as  the  car  clanged  on,  "  I 
couldn't  do  it  myself,  but  I've  been  glad  to  have  some  one 
along  who  wouldn't  drink  nor  smoke  a  cigarette,  and  who 
insisted  upon  telling  the  truth,  and  who  " — here  a  jolt,  and  I 
lost  her  words ;  the  next  I  heard  was  :  "  I  guess  I've  for- 
gotten that  I  ever  lived  in  the  country  and  breathed  pure 
air." 

At  the  station  I  found  I  should  have  to  wait  an  hour  and 
a  half.  At  first  Bashy  proposed  to  wait  with  me,  but  this 
soon  proved  too  much  for  her.  She  insisted  upon  knowing 
how  much  money  I  had.     We  found  that,  after  buying  my 


226  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

ticket,  there  would  be  sixty-five  cents  left.  She  turned  the 
contents  of  her  own  purse  into  her  lap  and  discovered  that 
there  was  enough  to  purchase  the  ticket,  and  she  walked 
off  to  procure  it  without  heeding  my  remonstrance. 

"You'll  want  a  bit  left  in  your  pocket/'  she  said.  Then 
she  kissed  me,  repeated  that  she  was  awfully  sorry,  and  left 
me.     In  a  moment  more  she  had  returned  and  had  asked  : 

"  How  about  Vane  ?"  I  tried  to  meet  her  eyes  and  failed. 
I  could  not  answer. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  as  if  I  had  answered. 

This  time  she  did  not  return.  When  she  was  really  gone 
I  bethought  me  that  I  ought  to  have  made  her  promise 
that  she  would  not  tell  her  brother  that  I  was  sitting  an 
hour  and  a  half  in  the  Grand  Central  Station.  Having 
thought  that,  I  fell  to  watching  the  people  who  were  con- 
tinually coming  in,  wondering  if  one  of  them  would  be 
Vane  Hildreth.  I  did  this  in  spite  of  a  strenuous  resolu- 
tion not  to  do  so. 

I  hoped  that  he  would  not  come — hoped  so  most  earnest- 
ly, and  yet,  when  the  moments  had  gone  on  to  the  limit  of 
an  hour,  I  was  very  unhappy.  It  was  useless  to  reason  that 
he  could  not  have  more  than  time  enough  to  reach  the  sta- 
tion if  he  should  start  the  very  moment  his  sister  could  in- 
form him.  It  seemed  to  me  a  curious  thing  that,  though 
I  would  surely  have  prevented  him  from  meeting  me  here, 
I  was  yet  longing  for  him  to  come. 

The  never-ceasing  stream  of  men  and  women  finally 
seemed  like  a  blurred  line  before  my  eyes.  I  could  look  at 
them  no  longer.  And  now  I  might  take  my  place  in  the 
train.  Shall  I  confess  that  I  waited  until  the  very  last  mo- 
ment, and  then  I  hurried  along  and  sank  down  upon  a  seat 
in  the  end  of  a  car  ?  I  sat  there  rigidly  upright,  my  satchel 
upon   my  knees.     I  fancied  that  I  felt  like  an  old  woman 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  227 

whose  dream  of  life  is  over.  I  was  going  home  to  live  as 
I  had  always  thought  I  never  could  live.  Perhaps  I  should 
become  like  Rachel  Cobb ;  perhaps  I  should  learn  to  visit 
half  my  time,  and  to  carry  about  a  much-rubbed  leather 
bag,  and  wear  eye-glasses. 

And  there  was  mother;  I  was  going  home  to  her.  My 
heart  was  so  sore  that  I  could  not  think  of  mother  without 
tears.  I  resolutely  wiped  the  drops  from  my  face  and  tried 
to  sit  even  more  rigidly  straight. 

I  heard  a  man  outside  shout  : 

"  'Board  T 

Two  or  three  late-comers  darted  up  the  steps ;  the  train 
gave  a  slight  hitch.  A  man  who  had  been  sitting  with  a 
woman  in  front  of  me  kissed  her  hurriedly,  passed  through 
the  door,  and  I  saw  him  let  himself  down  to  the  platform, 
lurching  forward  as  he  dropped.  We  had  started.  I  was 
holding  the  handle  of  my  bag  with  a  grip  that  made  my 
hand  stiff.  Yes,  everything  was  all  over.  Miss  Runciman 
was  tired  of  me ;  I  could  never  learn  to  be  a  singer  now ; 
and  Vane  had  not  come.  That  was  very  well,  indeed ;  I 
was  so  thankful  that  he  had  not  come.  Perhaps  his  sister 
had  not  told  him ;  perhaps  there  had  not  been  time ;  per- 
haps he  had  not  cared  to  come. 

Yes,  it  was  very  well,  and  just  the  way  I  would  have 
arranged  the  matter.  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  tried  to 
look  out  of  the  window.  The  car  door  slammed  close  to 
my  seat ;  the  brakeman  had  come  in  and  was  walking  down 
the  aisle.  Then  some  one  bent  over  me,  and  Vane  said 
close  to  my  cheek  : 

"  Thank  Heaven  !" 

A  sudden  wave  of  delicious  happiness  went  over  me, 
submerged  me  !  I  had  resolutely  hoped,  intellectually,  as 
they  say,  that  he  would  not  come ;  I  had  done  nothing  to 


228  IN    THE    FIRST   PERSON 

make  him  come;  but  here  he  was.  I  looked  up  at  him  for 
one  instant,  not  thinking  at  all  what  my  face  might  tell 
him.  I  suppose  it  did  tell  him  something,  for  his  eyes 
suddenly  blazed,  his  lips  quivered  as  he  whispered : 

"  My  darling,  you  are  glad  I  came,  aren't  you  ?" 

I  could  not  make  any  sort  of  reply.  I  had  never  been  so 
happy  in  my  life ;  but  I  couldn't  tell  him  that.  My  eyelids 
fell,  and  I  said  nothing.  Vane  was  leaning  one  hand  on 
the  arm  of  my  seat,  the  other  was  resting  on  his  cane.  He 
had  given  up  his  crutches. 

"  If  I  had  been  one  moment  later  I  should  have  been 
too  late,"  he  said.  "I  barely  scrambled  on  to  the  last  car. 
Bashy  told  me  ;  she  came  right  to  me  without  losing  an 
instant.     Bless  Bashy,  I  say." 

To  this  I  made  no  reply.  I  still  sat  there  quietly;  but 
now  the  light  shone  for  me.  I  could  not  remember  at  such 
a  moment  the  things  Miss  Runciman  had  told  me  about 
her  nephew.  I  forgot  how  wretched  I  had  been  a  moment 
before.  I  knew  that  the  wretchedness  would  come  back 
to  me  soon  enough,  but  it  was  gone  now.  I  was  not  feel- 
ing a  bit  like  a  Puritan ;  it  was  very  foolish  of  Bashy  to 
call  me  a  Puritan.  Vane  stood  up  and  looked  down  the 
car.  My  seat  was  the  short  one  at  the  end;  I  had  dropped 
into  it  in  my  despair  when  I  had  entered  the  train. 

In  a  moment  Vane  took  my  satchel  and  said  : 

"  Come  !" 

I  followed  him,  and  we  were  soon  established,  sitting 
side  by  side.  I  leaned  up  against  the  window  and  gazed 
through  it.  We  were  silent  for  a  time.  Into  my  mind,  like 
a  serpent,  there  had  now  stolen  again  the  remembrance 
of  all  Miss  Runciman  had  told  me  concerning  the  man 
who  had  just  joined  me.  It  was  Vane  who  broke  the 
silence. 


"FAREWELL,  LEONORA ,J  229 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked.  "Are  you  really 
going  home,  as  Bashy  said  ?" 

';  Yes." 

I  could  not  turn  towards  him.  I  was  trying  to  arrive 
at  some  definite  decision  as  to  my  course.  I  was  afraid 
that  old  simile  about  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice 
was  in  my  mind.  But,  think  as  I  would,  and  warn  myself 
as  I  would,  I  could  not  put  this  lovely  happiness  from  me. 

Vane  sat  with  his  elbow  resting:  on  his  knee,  his  face 
turned  my  way.  Apparently  he  was  not  in  the  least  en- 
deavoring to  be  warned  in  anv  manner.  His  whole  face 
was  luminous  and  satisfied.  It  was  hard  for  me  to  meet 
his  gaze,  and  yet  his  eyes  were  seeking  mine  imperi- 
ously. I  could  not  have  him  talking  of  love,  and  he  must 
banish  that  expression  from  his  face.  I  made  a  great  ex- 
ertion. 

"Mr.  Maverick  was  furious  last  night,"  I  said. 

"Very  likely;  but  I  don't  wish  to  talk  of  Maverick." 

"  Oh,  very  well.     Do  you  think  it  is  likely  to  rain  ?" 

"  Perhaps;  but  I'm  not  going  to  talk  of  the  weather." 

"  Indeed  !    Possibly  your  lordship  will  suggest  a  topic." 

"  Yes.  I  will.  Dearest" — bending  nearer — "I  love  vou 
— I  love  you." 

"  But  I'm  not  going  to  talk  of  love,"  lightly. 

"  Still,  you'll  listen  to  me  when  I  talk  of  it,  won't 
you?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Just  now  I'm  going  to  converse  upon 
the  average  rate  of  speed  of  passenger  trains." 

I  laughed.  Xo,  notwithstanding  all  my  reasoning,  I  could 
not  make  my  heart  heavy.  How  could  I  imagine  that  the 
stta  was  hidden  when  I  was  in  its  brightest,  loveliest  rays  ? 
VanV  laughed,  too.     He  drew  himself  up. 

•■  I'll  have  my  revenge  some  time,"  he  answered.     Then, 


230 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


with  a  seriousness  which  rather  startled  me,  he  asked  : 
"  Did  Aunt  Nora  send  you  away  ?" 

I  related  the  particulars  of  my  interview  with  Miss  Run- 
ciman.     Vane  looked  more  serious  still. 

"  Leonora  Runciman  is  a  tiger,"  he  said  ;  "  all  velvet 
and  claws.  When  she  is  velvet  she  is  entirely  charming ; 
when  she  is  claws  she  is — not  charming.  I've  made  up  my 
mind,  after  close  observation,  that  she  is  perfectly  sincere 
in  both  phases.  Naturally,  people  suffer  from  this  com- 
bination. She  fully  believed  she  could  resign  herself  to 
the  fact  that  you  would  some  day  be  a  better  singer  than 
she  is.  She  thought  that  she  would  like  the  eclat  of  bring- 
ing you  out.  But,  after  all,  she  couldn't  bear  it.  And 
there  was  Maverick.  He  admired  you  too  much.  Previ- 
ously he  had  admired  her.  I  don't  mean  she  loves  him — 
I  wonder  if  she  loves  any  one  ?  But  she  has  a  sort  of  soft- 
ness that  makes  you  think  she  could  love.  She  is  one  of 
those  women  who  yield  to  some  tender  emotion,  or  to  pen- 
itence, or  that  sort  of  thing,  if  she  happens  to  feel  inclined. 
But  who  cares  for  the  caress  of  a  sheathed  claw  ?  And  she 
has  a  way  of  making  women  like  her— I  don't  know  how 
she  does  it.  You  liked  her.  And  now,  in  a  half-hour  she'd 
make  you  like  her  again.  She  has  a  kind  of  power  of  be- 
witchment. I  don't  know  what  it  is.  And  she  can  seem 
so  frank.  She  has  moods  of  frankness  and  tenderness  and 
generosity.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  she  doesn't  feign. 
For  the  time  being  she  is  genuine,  therefore  she  is  success- 
ful— you  trust  her.  If  a  poor  creature  ever  turns  upon  her, 
what  do  you  think  she  says  ?  Why,  that  she  had  given  fair 
warning.  Hadn't  she  told  you  that  she  was  liable  to 
change  her  mind?  Oh,  my  aunt  Leonora  is  a  person  who 
does  exactly  as  she  pleases.  I  once  heard  her  say  that  God 
had  given  us  certain  natures,  and  we  were  obliged  to  act 


"  FAREWELL,  LEONORA  "  23  I 

accordingly.  There's  something  in  that,  too.  When  she 
is  through  with  the  squeezed  orange  it  is  dropped.  What, 
Billy,  are  you  taking  all  this  so  hard  ?" — with  a  tender 
glance.  "  But  of  course  it  hurts,  and  the  worst  of  such  an 
experience  is  that  it  is  likely  to  make  you  distrust  where 
you  ought  to  believe." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  bitterly,  "it  makes  you  distrust." 

Vane  gazed  at  me  intently,  a  slight  frown  in  his  eyes. 
.    "  Do   you   know,"  he  said,  "  that  you  make   me  suspect 
that  you  are  going  to  distrust  me  ?     Are  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  weakly. 

It  was  impossible  to  meet  his  serious,  impassioned  looks. 
I  moved  uneasily.  I  knew,  or  I  thought  I  knew,  that  I 
ought  to  doubt  him.  But  in  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart  I 
felt  the  conviction  that  I  believed  in  him  absolutely.  This 
conviction  at  last  made  me  turn  impulsively  towards  him. 
I  put  my  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Vane,"  I  said,  tremulously,  "I  believe  in  you.  Will 
you  be  true  to  me  ?" 

The  shining  of  a  great  glory  came  into  his  countenance. 
I  had  never  seen  such  a  look  on  any  face.  And  I  thought 
it  would  be  a  cruel  injustice  to  remember  again  the  things 
Miss  Runciman  had  said  to  me  about  this  man.  In  the 
emotion  of  that  moment  I  wished  that  I  could  do  something 
to  prove  how  sincerely  I  repented  of  the  wrong  I  had  done 
my  lover  in  my  thoughts.  For  I  accepted  him  as  my  lover  ; 
and  now  I  liked  to  think  that  I  had  loved  him  that  first 
time  I  had  seen  him,  when  he  had  come  up  the  path  from 
the  falls  at  his  aunt's  bidding,  and  I  had  thought  him 
"  foreign-looking." 

He  did  not  speak.  At  first  it  seemed  that  he  could  not. 
And  at  the  same  moment  I  imagined  that  we  both  re- 
called the  fact  that  this  was  no  place  in  which  to  allow  a 


232 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


face  to  express  too  much.  I  turned  quickly  again  to  the 
window  and  gazed  blindly  out,  my  pulses  throbbing  in 
throat  and  temples.     I  heard  my  companion's  whisper: 

"  My  darling,  my  darling,  I  will  be  true  to  you — I  couldn't 
help  being  true !" 


XIV 

ON    THE    TRAIN 

There  was  a  silence  after  these  words.  I  would  not 
turn  from  the  window.  The  train  was  now  dashing  on  at  a 
great  speed.  It  would  be  the  whole  day  before  we  should 
arrive  at  the  town  where  I  must  leave  the  express  for  the 
local  train  that  would  take  me  to  the  station  nearest  my 
home  ;  and  that  nearest  was  a  distance  of  several  miles. 

It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  Vane  was  not  going  the 
entire  distance  ;  and  then  I  could  present  him  to  father 
and  mother.  Of  course  they  would  like  him.  Here  I  stole 
a  furtive  glance  in  his  direction.  Mother  would  not  ap- 
prove at  first,  perhaps  ;  but  she  would  soon  do  so  ;  and 
father — 

Vane  was  looking  at  his  watch. 

"Only  three  hours  more,"  he  said,  "for  I  can  only  go  to 

W Junction.     There  I  catch  an  express  back  to  New 

York.  If  it  were  not  for  this  express  I  don't  know  as  I 
could  have  allowed  myself  to  come — now,  and  yet  I  might 
have  come.  How  could  I  have  waited  until  my  return 
from  England  ?" 

"Are  you  going  to  England?"  To  my  country-bred 
thought  he  might  almost  as  well  have  said  Africa  or  the 
Himalayas. 

"Yes,  and  that  is  one  thing  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about. 
A  cable  despatch  yesterday  —  great  chance  for  me  —  the 


234 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


greatest  I  have  ever  had.  If  I  care  to  do  anything  in  my 
profession  I  must  go  and  see  Alford.  You've  heard  of  Al- 
ford?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  was  trying  to  be  quite  calm,  and  to 
behave  like  a  reasonable  being. 

"  He  is  a  famous  impresario.  You  advise  me  to  go, 
Billy  ?"  leaning  towards  me  again. 

"By  all  means,"  I  answered. 

"I  knew  you  would.  It's  the  best  thing  that  has  ever 
happened  in  my  work.   But  I  may  have  to  be  gone  a  year —  " 

At  this  I  folded  my  hands ;  and  once  more  I  made  the 
effort  to  keep  them  loosely  clasped. 

"  Dear  Billy  " — this  in  a  sudden,  quick  whisper  and  with 
an  apparently  uncontrollable  movement  nearer  to  me. 
"  Dearest,  if  you  could — if  you  would  only  go  with  me  !" 

"No— no." 

"  Don't  decide  in  a  moment  like  that,"  hurriedly.  "  It's 
dreadful  to  hear  you  say  'No  '  in  that  manner.     I — " 

A  tall  man  in  a  clerical  coat  came  down  the  aisle,  glanced 
at  us,  then  stopped  and  shook  hands  cordially  with  Vane. 
He  looked  my  way. 

"  I  wish  you'd  present  me,  Hildreth.  I  heard  this  young 
lady  sing  last  night.  I  was  one  of  those  who  applauded 
her." 

The  gentleman  smiled  genially  as  he  gazed  in  my  face. 
Vane  named  a  name  I  had  heard  as  belonging  to  a  cler- 
gyman who  was  well  known  as  a  great  lover  of  music. 
Bathsheba  had  said  once  that  we  were  sure  of  one  listener, 
anyway,  and  that  was  Mr.  Moreton. 

The  gentleman  stood  and  chatted  a  few  moments.     He 

said  he  was  taking  a  run  to  YV Junction  ;  he  went  every 

month  to  pay  a  little  visit  to  his  mother.     "  Very  glad,  in- 
deed, to  have  seen  you,  Miss  Armstrong.     Let  me  urge  you 


OX    THE    TRAIN  235 

to  study  for  the  profession  that  has  so  plainly  called  you. 
Really,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  the  world  was  going  to 
lose  your  voice.  I'm  in  the  drawing-room  car,  back  here. 
Perhaps  I'll  see  you  again.  This  is  good  luck,  indeed." 
He  lifted  his  hat  and  sauntered  on.  Vane  sat  with  his 
head  bent  upon  his  hand.  I  stole  a  look  at  his  profile,  and 
saw  how  set  and  severe  it  was.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking 
intently.  As  for  me,  I  had  enough  to  do  to  bear  myself 
calmly. 

At  length  Vane  raised  his  head.  I  was  half  afraid  of  his 
eyes,  and  I  did  not  meet  them.  He  put  his  arm  on  the  back 
of  the  seat,  and  his  hand  up  to  make  a  sort  of  shield  for  his 
face. 

"  Vou  said  you  loved  me,"  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  in  the  same  way. 

"  And  you  trust  me,  and  believe  in  me  ?" 

••Yes/' 

If  he  only  knew  how  fully,  in  the  revulsion  from  doubt,  I 
did  trust  him  ! 

"  Bless  you  for  that  !  Oh.  bless  you  for  that !  Xow  don't 
be  shocked  and  don't  shrink  at  what  I'm  going  to  say.  I 
want  you  to  go  with  me  to  Mr.  Moreton's  car  and  let  him 
marry  us — now,  this  very  hour." 

I  did  shrink,  and  at  first  I  could  not  speak.     Then  I  said 

"No." 

Vane  drew  a  deep  breath  and  appeared  to  be  trying  to 
possess  his  soul  in  patience. 

"I  thought  you  loved  and  trusted  me,"  he  said. 

"  So  I  do— so  I  do,"  fervently. 

"  And  you're  going  to  marry  me  some  day  ?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"  You  are  certainly  going  to  be  my  wife.  Xow  here  is 
Providence  —  or  chance  —  sending  Mr.    Moreton   right  to 


236  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

us.     Why  do  you  object  ?      Don't  you  think  I  love  you 
enough  ?" 

I  did  not  answer  this  last  question.  I  was  thinking  of 
mother,  and  that  I  could  not — no,  I  could  not  go  away  from 
her  in  such  a  manner.  As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  command 
my  voice  I  told  him  this ;  and  that  it  was  not  because  I  did 
not  love  him.     He  must  wait. 

"  Wait !  If  I  were  only  to  be  near  you  !  But  how  can  I 
wait  thousands  of  miles  away?  And  I'm  jealous  of  Mav- 
erick— I'm  jealous  of  time,  and  distance — of  everything. 
Billy,  please  don't  tell  me  to  wait.     I  simply  can't  do  it !" 

There  was  something  childish  in  this  outburst  that  made 
me  able  to  smile  at  him,  and  that  also  made  him  seem  a 
great  deal  dearer  and  nearer.  Did  you  ever  notice  that 
when  a  person  has  asked  of  you  a  thing  you  cannot  possibly 
grant,  and  then  gives  that  thing  up,  begging  for  something 
else  which  you  thought  was  also  impossible — then  you  say 
yes  to  this  second  request  ? 

This  was  what  happened  to  me.  And  now,  as  I  write 
about  this  day,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  the  first  time  in  my  life 
when  I  acted  as  if  I  were  some  one  else.  Was  it  really  I  ? 
Have  not  we  all  asked  ourselves  this  question  in  regard  to 
some  circumstance?  Yes,  it  was  I  who  gave  a  consent 
which  I  regretted  the  moment  I  had  given  it,  and  which  ap- 
peared to  open  up  to  me  afterwards,  when  I  could  think,  a 
new  phase  of  my  character,  and  never  since  then  have  I 
thought  myself  strong.  Always  now  I  believe  that  I  also 
may  be  borne  along  by  that  "  wind  of  destiny"  which  wafts 
our  bark  to  fair  or  stormy  seas.  And  what  is  that  wind  of 
destiny  but  the  attributes  with  which  God  endowed  us  ? 
This  is  not  the  way  mother  thinks  ;  she  prays  that  I  may 
be  led  to  believe  otherwise.  Perhaps  I  shall.  Sometimes, 
in  an  ecstasy  of  longing,  I,  too,  pray  that  I  may  come  to 


ON    THE    TRAIN  237 

believe  as  my  mother  believes.  No,  I  am  not  a  strong 
woman,  though  youth  is  almost  always  certain  of  that  one 
thing — strength. 

Vane  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand  again.  Mean- 
time I  felt  hard-hearted  and  cruel.  I  could  not  bear  to 
grieve  him.  Why  did  he  ask  me  to  do  such  a  thing  ?  He 
turned  to  me  and  pulled  out  his  watch  for  the  second  time. 

'•  We  have  only  an  hour  and  five  minutes  left,"  he  said, 
"  and  then  I  must  leave  you — for  a  year  probably.  I  can 
explain  all  that  at  some  other  time.  It  is  like  death  to  go 
away  from  you,  my  darling.     You  don't  know — " 

He  paused.  Ah,  didn't  I  know  ?  I  had  been  thinking  of 
his  love  ever  since  that  time  in  the  little  room  at  Rachel 
Cobb's — the  memory  of  his  words  and  voice  and  look  had 
been  underneath  all  my  thoughts  and  deeds.  Why  not 
confess  this  to  myself  now  ?  But  I  could  not  confess  it  to 
him.  I  shrank  from  such  confession  as  every  woman  at 
first  shrinks. 

"There's  Maverick,"  he  went  on. 

Here  I  smiled  and  exclaimed  emphatically: 

"That  is  ridiculous!" 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  that  man  as  I  know  him.  And 
there's  my  aunt ;  it  is  not  impossible  that  she  may  change 
her  mind.  She  has  as  many  shades  of  moods  as  a  peacock 
has  colors." 

"  I  am  done  with  Miss  Runciman,"  I  said,  bitterly. 

"No  matter,  I  don't  know  why  I  feel  so  horribly  uncer- 
tain.    It  is  enough  that  I  do  feel  so." 

Vane  was  talking  fast;  a  flush  had  risen  to  his  face. 
There  was  something  desperate  in  his  manner. 

"  I  give  up  asking  you  to  go  with  me,  Billy,"  he  said, 
"but  I  can't  give  up  my  hope  that  you'll  let  Mr.  Moreton 
marry  us  here  on  the  train.     Stop  !    Don't  speak  yet !    You 


238  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

are  going  to  be  my  wife.  Why  not  marry  me  now  ?  You 
have  no  reason — unless  you  don't  love  me  enough.  Billy, 
did  you  mean  it  when  you  said  you  loved  me  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  agony  of  entreaty  in  his  eyes. 

"  Did  I  mean  it  ?"  I  cried. 

"Yes,  did  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  '  in  a  distressed  whisper. 

"  Then  marry  me  now.  I  tell  you  it  is  God  himself  who 
has  given  us  this  opportunity.  Then  I  shall  cross  the  water 
with  the  thought  of  my  wife  in  my  heart.'" 

Why  need  I  repeat  all  he  said,  and  all  my  heart  re- 
sponded ?  I  consented.  Vane  went  back  to  find  Mr. 
Moreton.  I  sat  cold  and  still,  and  without  a  coherent 
thought  in  my  mind,  awaiting  his  return.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments he  came  back  for  me  and  I  followed  him.  His  face 
was  so  set  and  pale,  and  at  the  same  time  resplendent, 
that  I  could  only  give  it  one  swift  glance.  He  took  me  to 
a  compartment  where  were  Mr.  Moreton,  two  other  men, 
and  a  woman.  "Witnesses,"  I  thought  dully,  when  I  saw 
these  latter. 

Mr.  Moreton  grasped  my  hand  in  a  firm  way  as  he  said 
rapidly  that  under  the  circumstances  he  had  consented  to 
do  as  his  friend  Mr.  Hildreth  had  asked  him  to  do.  Of 
course  it  was  a  little  irregular,  but  in  good  faith,  and  would 
be  as  binding  as  if  I  were  in  my  father's  house  with  brides- 
maids about  me.     Here  he  smiled  slightly. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  ceremony  had  been  performed. 
Mr.  Moreton  congratulated  us,  and  then  the  unknown  two 
men  and  the  unknown  woman  congratulated  us.  The  lat- 
ter, pitying  my  position,  I  think,  kissed  me  and  whispered 
that  I  must  "  bear  up."  Vane  tried  to  listen  to  something 
that  Mr.  Moreton  told  him  about  the  certificate.  Vane's 
face  still  had  a  very  determined  expression  upon  it.     He 


ON    THE    TRAIN  239 

turned  from  the  clergyman  and  for  the  third  time  looked 
at  his  watch. 

"We  have  just  fifteen  minutes  before  the  train  stops  at 
W Junction,"  he  said,  stiffly. 

The  woman  hurriedly  said  something  to  the  men,  and  the 
group  quickly  left  the  compartment.  Vane  and  I  were 
alone.  I  sat  down  and  he  placed  himself  beside  me.  He 
put  his  arm  about  me.  With  his  other  hand  beneath  my 
chin  he  gently  lifted  my  face  until  he  could  look  down  into 
my  eyes. 

"  Wilhelmina,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  remember — remember 
always  that  I  love  you — love  you — as  I've  never  loved  any 
human  being  in  this  world.  God  forgive  me  !  Oh,  how  I 
love  you !" 

Then  he  kissed  me  with  something  of  the  solemnity  he 
had  used  in  speaking.  We  hardly  spoke  again.  The  train 
was  dashing  on  at  a  great  speed.  Vane  and  I  sat  close  to- 
gether, he  holding  me  to  him.     Finally  he  said: 

"  I  shall  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can.  And  I  shall  write." 
Then  after  a  moment,  "You  will  never  know  how  I  thank 
you  for  doing  this — for  showing  me  your  love." 

The  train  began  to  slow.     It  stopped. 

"Tell  me  you  love  me,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  love  you,"  I  answered.     He  kissed  me  again. 

Three  minutes  later  Vane  was  gone,  and  the  train  was 
gathering  speed  as  it  left  the  Junction  behind  it.  I  began 
to  be  keenly  afraid  that  some  one  would  come  and  speak 
to  me.  I  rose  and  left  the  car,  going  forward  until  I  came 
to  the  car  I  had  first  entered.  I  found  my  satchel  in  the 
rack  where  Vane  had  put  it;  we  had  both  forgotten  it. 

An  old  man  was  in  the  seat  beneath  the  satchel ;  he  made 
room  for  me  to  sit  beside  him.  I  sat  down  and  put  my 
hands  together.    At  first  I  was  fearing  all  the  time  that  the 


240 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


old  man  would  speak  to  me.  At  last  I  saw  that  he  was 
asleep.  Then  it  came  over  me  with  a  terrible  power  that  I 
would  give  everything,  my  life  even,  I  thought,  if.  I  could 
undo  what  had  just  been  done.  Oh,  why  had  I  done  it  ?  I 
longed  to  start  up  and  scream  that  question  aloud. 

I  held  myself  down  on  my  seat  and  did  not  open  my  lips. 
I  had  consented  to  the  marriage  ;  and  I  loved  Vane.  There 
was  no  doubt  as  to  my  love  for  him,  surely.  Then  why 
should  I  feel  this  way  about  the  marriage  ?  It  was  its  sud- 
denness, its  clandestine  character.  And  now  that  I  was 
away  from  Vane  I  thought  I  could  see  plainly  that  an  en- 
gagement would  have  been  far  better  until  his  return. 
Then,  all  at  once,  my  thoughts  took  a  turn,  and  I  thrilled 
with  happiness  because  I  had  not  refused,  because  I  was  his 
wife.  The  memory  of  his  face  was  like  his  caress  ;  and  his 
eyes,  the  beautiful,  magnetic  eyes,  that  had  made  me  love 
him  from  the  very  first —  I  would  tell  mother  everything. 
She  would  not  approve,  but  all  the  same  she  would  comfort 
and  counsel  me. 

This  last  resolution  gave  me  a  superficial  peace  for  a 
time.  Then  presently  I  went  through  again  the  entire 
round  of  frenzied  regret  at  what  I  had  done,  the  ecstatic 
joy  in  Vane's  love ;  and  I  groped  after  the  peace  my 
mother's  affection  would  give  me;  but  that  fleeting  peace 
would  not  come  again.  I  hardly  thought  of  father,  and 
that  seemed  strange.  The  day  wore  on  at  last.  By  the 
time  I  had  reached  the  town,  which  was  the  end  of  my  car 
ride,  I  was  so  worn  out  with  that  constant  whirl  of  thought 
that  my  mind  was  mercifully  dulled. 

I  stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  the  train  glide 
away.  I  had  a  fancy  that  it  took  from  me  the  last  ves- 
tige of  the  episode  .in  my  life  which  belonged  to  Miss 
Runciman.     I  thought  that  all  my  fervid  ambition  to  learn 


ON    THE    TRAIN  241 

to  sing  had  been  destroyed.  I  had  come  back  humbled 
and  old.  Yes,  I  smile  now  as  I  recall  how  old  I  felt  as  I 
waited  in  front  of  the  bit  of  a  station.  There  was  no  one 
there  at  the  moment  but  the  agent,  who  was  hauling  some 
freight  towards  the  shed  provided  for  it.  The  big  boxes 
made  a  scrunching  noise,  and  the  sound  grated  terribly  on 
my  nerves.  The  station-master  had  looked  at  me,  and  I 
had  said  I  supposed  there  was  a  depot  carriage  to  Worth- 
ing :  and  he  answered  :    "  Oh,  yes,  but  sometimes  it  was  a 

little  late." 

So  I  walked  back  and  forth,  gazing  at  the  desolate  brown 
landscape  with  its  bare  trees.  Only  some  willows  by  a 
brook  showed  in  their  branches  that  it  was  April— their 
reddened  bark  betrayed  that  the  sun  had  come  north. 
Very  soon  I  heard  the  rattle  of  wheels.  Two  brown 
horses  came  up  to  the  door  of  the  station,  bringing  the 
familiar,  long,  covered  wagon  with  its  trunk -racks   at  the 

end. 

It  was  Bidwell  Blake  who  sprang  from  the  seat  and 
strode  forward,  not  seeing  me,  and  calling  out  to  the  agent : 

"  Any  plunder  for  Worthing  to-night,  Nat  ?" 

"Two  barrels  and  a  woman,"  was  the  answer  from  the 
shed.  Then  Bidwell  turned  to  find  the  woman  and  saw  me. 
He  grew  red,  hesitated,  then  came  forward. 

"  What,  Billy  !  I  declare  this  jest  knocks  me  !"  he  cried, 
and  then  we  shook  hands  warmly.  "  Folks  ain't  expectm 
ye,  are  they  ?"  he  asked.  The  old  familiar  way  of  speaking 
affected  me  as  I  had  not  thought  it  would  do,  and  at  first  I 
could  not  speak.  But  the  next  moment  I  replied  that  I  had 
suddenly  decided  to  come  home. 

"  Jest  for  a  little  visit,  I  s'pose,"  remarked  Bidwell  as  he 
tucked  the  carriage  blanket  about  my  feet. 

"  Xo,  for  a  long  time,"  I  answered. 
16 


242  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

He  did  not  respond  directly;  then  he  said,  cordially: 

"That  so?  Now  that's  good.  Won't  your  folks  be  set 
up,  though?" 

Then  I  summoned  courage  to  ask,  almost  in  a  whisper 
though,  as  if  I  feared  the  answer : 

"  How  are  they  all  at  my  home?" 

"  Oh,  prime,  first-rate.  I've  seen  your  father  look  better, 
but  he  ain't  complainin'  as  I  know  of." 

"And  mother?"  I  leaned  forward  towards  Bidwell  as  I 
spoke.  Somehow  I  suspected  that  he  was  telling  that  things 
were  better  than  they  were.  As  so  often  happens,  now  that 
I  was  approaching  home,  I  was  seized  by  an  uncontrollable 
anxiety  as  to  the  welfare  of  the  people  there. 

"  Oh,  she's  tollable  chirk,"  was  the  reply.  "I've  seen 
her  look  better,  too,  and  I've  seen  her  look  worse." 

Here  Bidwell  left  me,  and  presently  I  heard  the  thump- 
ing of  the  barrels  as  they  were  loaded  on  to  the  back  of  the 
wagon,  and  I  heard  the  voices  of  the  two  men. 

A  squirrel  came  down  a  tree-trunk  across  the  road,  vent- 
ured within  a  few  yards  of  the  horses,  paused  and  gazed 
keenly  about,  then  darted  back  up  the  tree.  The  sight  of 
the  little  thing  gave  a  strange,  exultant  throb  to  my  heart. 
I  liked  to  think  that  it  was  a  good  omen.  When  the  barrels 
were  loaded  and  strapped,  Bidwell  mounted  to  his  seat,  the 
horses  wheeled  about  and  trotted  strongly  over  the  soft  road. 
Bidwell  turned  half  round  towards  me. 

"Frost's  'bout  out,"  he  said,  cheerfully;  "didn't  know 
one  time  but  we  were  goin'  to  be  frost-bound  all  the  spring. 
But  it's  got  to  give  when  the  sun  gits  along  this  way.  Yes, 
it's  got  to  give.  I  put  in  early  pease  three  weeks  ago,  south 
of  my  barn,  ye  know.  We'll  have  a  mess  'fore  the  17th  of 
June,  you  be  sure." 

My  eyes  stung  and  my  throat  swelled  as  I  listened.     I 


OX    THE    TRAIN  243 

would  have  said  it  was  ten  years  since  I  had  heard  the 
country  dialect  instead  of  a  few  months.  A  breath  of  fresh 
air,  of  air  clearer  and  sweeter  than  any  I  had  known  for 
ages,  swept  across  my  face.  My  nostrils  dilated  to  inhale 
it.  It  was  as  if  I  had  breathed  only  heavy,  luscious  per- 
fumes, but  now —  I  sat  up  with  greater  erectness.  Some- 
thing kindled  within  me.  I  asked  how  Bidwell  happened 
to  be  driving  the  depot  wagon,  and  where  was  Mr.  Nute  ? 

"  Oh,  Xute's  be'n  laid  up  with  rheumatism,  'n'  he  wanted 
me  to  take  his  trips  for  a  spell.  But  I  couldn't  stan'  his 
old  hosses,  so  I  put  my  browns  in.     Ain't  they  beauties  ?" 

The  speaker  turned  and  looked  affectionately  at  the  ani- 
mals he  was  driving.  I  questioned  him  concerning  every 
one  I  had  ever  heard  of  in  Worthing.  I  felt  a  quite  unac- 
countable interest  in  everybody.  He  told  me  with  a  laugh 
that  Rachel  Cobb  had  sprained  her  ankle  six  weeks  ago 
when  she  was  going  out  to  feed  her  hens,  and  that  he,  Bid- 
well,  had  "tended  to  the  Cobb  fowl  ever  sence.  Rachel's 
niece,  Myra,  from  Great  Medders,  was  stoppin'  with  her ; 
Myra  had  a  constitootional  objection  to  takin'  care  of  hens. 
But  Rachel  was  'bout  able  to  go  visitin'  again." 

So  Bidwell  talked  on  in  response  to  my  inquiries.  But 
we  fell  silent  when  the  chimneys  of  my  home  came  in  sight. 
I  did  not  know  I  cared  so  much  —  so  much.  And  I  had 
been  so  eager  to  go  away.  Grandmother's  face  was  at  the 
window.  I  knew  that  she  was  sitting  in  the  big  rocker 
there.  And  they  would  all  look  when  they  heard  the  depot 
carriage  coming.  It  was  almost  dusk  now,  but  the  April 
days  were  long. 

The  door  opened,  the  south  door  under  the  porch,  and 
there  was  mother  gazing  questioningly  at  us.  I  saw  the 
li^ht  come  in  her  face,  and  grow  until  the  delicate  features 
shone.     Bidwell  hurried  to  help  me  alight,  but  I  was  out  of 


244 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


the  carriage  before  he  could  reach  me.  I  sprang  into 
mother's  arms. 

"  Why,  my  dear  little  girl !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  clasped 
me  to  her.  And  how  strange,  how  entirely  inexplicable,  it 
was  to  me  that  the  instant  I  saw  her  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not 
tell  her,  it  would  be  simply  impossible  to  tell  her,  of  that 
marriage  a  few  hours  ago  on  the  train.  As  I  thought  this 
I  clung  still  more  closely  to  the  frail  form.  I  must  be  the 
gentlest,  the  most  loving,  the  most  obedient  daughter,  but 
I  could  not  tell  her  of  my  marriage.  I  would  wait ;  yes,  I 
would  wait. 

Bidwell  had  set  my  satchel  on  the  stoop,  jumped  into  the 
carriage,  and  driven  off.  My  trunk  Bashy  would  send  on  as 
soon  as  she  could  think  to  do  it.  Grandmother  came  for- 
ward walking  waveringly,  as  the  old  will  walk.  She  gave 
me  a  dry  little  kiss  from  withered  lips,  and  said  she 
"  couldn't  b'lieve  S'rissy  when  she  said  'twas  Wilhelminy." 

"  'N'  how  be  ye  ?  I  s'pose  you  c'n  sing  's  well 's  Me th it- 
able  Crossley  now,  can't  ye  ?"  Miss  Crossley  had  sung 
once  in  the  chorus  of  Judas  Maccabaus  at  Chilton. 

They  told  me  that  Aunt  Lowizy  was  spending  the  day 
with  Rachel  Cobb.  And  where  was  father  ?  I  was  ner- 
vously waiting  to  see  him.  I  recalled  his  figure  in  its  high 
rubber  boots,  stooping  forward  in  the  wind  and  the  rain 
as  he  had  left  me  at  the  shore  on  that  day  when  he  had 
come  on  Bidwell  Blake's  behalf.  Having  just  met  Bidwell, 
I  could  almost  doubt  that  he  had  been  knowing  to  that  visit. 

"  Your  father's  out  milkin',"  said  mother,  in  response  to 
my  unuttered  question. 

She  had  been  taking  off  my  hat  and  patting  down  my 
rumpled  hair.  Her  eyes  kept  filling,  and  the  tears  would 
drop  on  her  cheeks.  She  led  me  to  a  chair,  and  gently 
pushed  me  clown  into  it.     She  stood  before  me,  her  eyes 


ON    THE    TRAIN  245 

fixed  on  my  face.  I  met  her  gaze,  and  my  heart  sank  as  I 
knew  again,  with  still  greater  emphasis,  how  impossible  it 
was  for  me  to  tell  her  now.  Yes,  I  would  wait.  But  it 
seemed  as  if  she  must  know  instantly  that  I  was  keeping 
something  of  importance  from  her.  I  jumped  up  from  my 
seat  and  put  my  arm  about  her ;  I  walked  with  her  to  the 
open  door. 

"  Oh,  how  natural  everything  is  !"  I  cried.  "  Xothing  has 
changed.  I  don't  think  I  could  have  borne  it  if  anything 
had  changed.  There  are  the  same  loose  shingles  on  the 
east  roof  of  the  cowshed.  I'm  glad  that  no  new  ones  have 
been  put  there.  And  there's  the  turkey-gobbler  that  used 
to  run  at  me." 

I  was  conscious  of  trying  to  talk,  and  this  consciousness 
troubled  me  deeply.  The  words  in  my  mind  were,  "  I  am 
Vane  Hildreth's  wife,  and  I  want  to  tell  my  mother,  but  I 
cannot/'     She  gazed  at  me  wistfully.     At  last  she  asked  : 

"  Have  you  come  home  for  a  little  visit?  You  did  not 
write  that  you  were  coming." 

"  No,  I  did  not  write.  It  was  all  very  sudden.  I  only 
decided  about  half  an  hour  before  I  started.  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it  soon.  I  guess  I'll  go  out  and  surprise  father. 
Is  he  well  ?" 

I  stepped  down  on  to  the  broad,  flat  stone  at  the  door 
and  turned  towards  mother  as  I  put  the  question.  Her  face 
grew  troubled. 

"  He  don't  complain  none,"  she  answered,  "but  it  seems 
to  me  he  ain't  what  he  was  six  months  ago." 

I  hurried  across  the  yard  to  the  barn.  At  the  open  door 
I  hesitated  an  instant.  A  hen  with  a  brood  of  white,  fluff 
balls  on  legs  came  hastening  up  to  me,  expectant  of  food. 
I  heard  steps  in  the  barn.  I  walked  across  the  big  room 
we  called  a  carriage-house  into  the  place  beyond  where  the 


246  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON' 

horse  and  cow  stalls  were.  I  stood  in  the  entrance  an  in- 
stant watching  father  as  he  raked  some  hay  down  from  the 
mow.  He  had  not  stooped  like  that  when  I  had  last  seen 
him  work.  I  was  shocked  by  his  looking  like  an  old  man. 
I  hesitated  still  longer  at  the  threshold.  He  lifted  his  rake 
full  of  the  loose  hay  he  had  gathered  to  put  into  the  rack 
of  the  cow  near  him.  As  he  swung  round  the  rake  he  saw 
me.  He  hastily  flung  the  hay  into  its  place  and  came  for- 
ward. 

"  Hullo,  Billy !"  he  cried,  but  I  thought  not  in  his  old, 
boisterous  good-humor.  He  came  to  me,  shook  hands,  and 
kissed  me ;  was  it  my  fancy  that  there  was  something  me- 
chanical in  his  manner?  And  I  actually  wondered  if  he 
w?ere  glad  I  had  come. 

"  How's  the  opery  business  ?"  he  asked. 

I  answered  that  it  was  good,  I  believed.  Then  I  added 
bravely  that  I  thought  I  was  through  with  it. 

"That  so?  Wall,  I  ain't  supprised  at  anything  you  c'n 
tell  me  'bout  primy  donnas,  'n'  that's  a  fact.  Company 
broke  up  ?" 

"No;  but  I've  had  a — a  misunderstanding  with  Miss 
Runciman." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Mebby  you  could  sing  too  well, 
after  all."  I  thought  my  father  was  very  shrewd  to  think  of 
that,  but  I  said  nothing. 

"  Goin'  to  stay  to  home  now  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  want  to  have  me,  father." 

I  spoke  rather  timidly.  The  thought  came  to  me,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  that  perhaps  my  father  would  think  me 
a  burden.     This  thought  turned  me  cold. 

"  Stay  jest  as  well  's  not,"  he  answered,  indifferently : 
"  mother  '11  like  to  have  ye  ;  'n'  so  shTl  I,  of  course." 

This  was  so  different  from  his  former  rough  and  exuber- 


OX    THE    TRAIN  247 

ant  manner  that  I  felt  colder  still.  I  recalled  that  since 
that  time  when  he  had  taken  the  journey  to  the  shore  to  see 
me  on  Bidwell  Blake's  behalf,  he  had  never  sent  his  love, 
never  a  word  in  mother's  letters.  Was  he  "laying  up'' 
something  against  me  ?  Was  it  my  refusal  to  become  en- 
gaged to  Bidwell  ? 

••  Your  mother  '11  be  glad.      Have  ye  told  her  ?" 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"  Ain't  ye  ?  Yes,  she'll  be  mighty  glad  to  have  a  chance 
to  make  ye  into  a  Second  x\dventist." 

Now  father  laughed  and  winked,  something  in  his  old 
manner,  but  I  thought  there  was  a  drop  of  bitterness  in  it. 
I  wanted  to  go  back  to  the  house.  I  was  so  disappointed 
and  pained  that  I  could  hardly  keep  the  tears  from  my  eyes. 
And  how  old  father  did  look  as  he  stood  there  leaning  on 
his  rake  ! 

"D'you  come  over  in  the  deepo  wagon  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  seen  Bidwell,  I  s'pose  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Here  father  shot  a  keen  glance  at  me ;  then  he  put  his 
hand  out  and  took  hold  of  a  stanchion  with  a  tight  grip. 
Certainly  every  moment  made  it  seem  more  and  more  im- 
possible to  tell  of  my  marriage,  and  I  had  to  ask  myself  in 
bewilderment  if  that  marriage  had  really  taken  place.  I 
had  not  even  a  ring.  Perhaps  that  was  as  well,  until  Vane 
came  back,  but  I  did  wish  that  I  had  a  ring.  You  will  see 
that  I  was  often  very  weak  and  childish. 

"  Bid's  be'n  a  great  comfort  to  me  this  last  winter,  'n! 
'long  back,"  he  said. 

"Has  he?"  I  asked,  faintly. 

"Yes;  he's  be'n  a  real  friend.  I'd  have  be'n  in  a  tight 
place  if  it  hadn't  be'n  for  him." 


248  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  tried  to  say  that  I  was  glad  Bid  had  been  kind,  but  I 
could  not.  I  was  so  afraid  that  father  was  going  to  renew 
the  subject  he  had  mentioned  at  the  shore  that  I  had  no 
words. 

"  Bid's  a  first-rate  feller,  V  no  mistake,"  he  went  on,  "V 
I  guess  he's  goin'  to  git  a  good  wife.  Bid  deserves  a  good 
wife." 

In  my  relief  I  dared  not  look  up,  but  I  knew  that  father 
was  gazing  sharply  at  me. 

"  So  he  does,"  I  answered  in  a  barely  audible  voice. 

I  thought  my  companion  chuckled,  but  I  wasn't  sure. 

"That's  so.  I  expect  he's  taken  with  that  girl  Rachel 
Cobb's  had  to  her  house  a  month  or  two  back.  You  know 
Rachel  sprained  her  ankle 'n' had  to  give  up  visitin1  for  a 
spell.  Folks  round  are  tryin'  to  be  reconciled  to  her  not 
comin'  to  see  um.  She's  got  her  niece  from  Great  Medders 
stayin'  with  her — girl  with  great  eyes  that  seem  to  ask  a 
feller  to  guide  her  'n'  take  care  of  her,  ye  know.  Fellers 
like  to  have  a  girl  make  um  feel  that  way.  Myra  Foster's 
one  of  them  kind.  Myra  sot  out  that  she  didn't  want  to 
take  care  Rachel's  fowls,  but  she'd  do  everything  else. 
She  told  Rachel  this  right  'fore  Bidwell,  'n',  of  course,  Bid 
was  glad  'nough  to  say  he'd  come  over  twice  a  day  'n'  see 
to  the  fowls.  I  tell  you,  when  he  ain't  busy,  that  twice-a- 
day  business  takes  up  'bout  the  whole  time.  She  wa'n't 
with  him  when  he  went  to  the  deepo  this  afternoon,  was 
she  ?" 

"No." 

"Wa'n't?  Wall,  she  gees  out  real  often  behind  them 
brown  hosses  of  his.  She's  kinder  takin'.  I  guess  you'll 
like  her  first-rate."  Then  with  an  abrupt  change  :  "Opery 
goin'  on  jest  the  same  ?" 

I  thought  that  the  sooner  I  explained  how  I  had  left  the 


ON    THE    TRAIN 


249 


better.  So  I  hurriedly  related  the  outline  of  the  case.  But 
I  found  that  I  could  not  speak  very  freely,  because  my 
father  did  not  seem  the  same.  When  I  went  back  to  the 
house  the  dusk  had  deepened.  There  was  a  lamp  lighted 
on  the  kitchen  table,  and  mother  was  stirring  up  some 
"cream-y- tartar"  biscuit  for  supper.  She  gave  me  a  joyful 
glance  when  I  went  up  to  her  and  stood  for  a  moment  with 
my  arm  about  her.  I  was  continually  thinking,  what  if  I 
should  say,  "Mother,  I'm  married  —  I  married  that  tenor 
singer,  Mr.  Hildreth."' 

I  hoped  that  when  I  had  been  home  a  few  days  I  should 
cease  to  have  these  words  in  mind.  And  when  Vane  wrote 
to  me,  perhaps  the  address  on  the  envelope  would  tell  the 
story;  then  I  would  explain  everything.  While  we  three 
were  sitting  at  the  supper-table  the  door  opened  that  led 
into  the  wood-room,  and  light  steps  came  quickly  towards 
the  kitchen.  Some  one  who  was  very  much  at  home  was 
coming.  The  kitchen-door  was  flung  open,  and  a  young  girl 
entered  with  a  little  run  that  brought  her  to  father's  chair. 
She  paused  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Lem — "  she  began  :  then  she  seemed  to  see 
me  for  the  first  time,  and  she  did  not  go  on  with  her  speech. 

She  was  certainly  very  pretty,  with  what  I  thought  a 
gaudy,  uninteresting  prettiness  of  pink  and  white.  She  had 
a  way  of  arching  her  brows  and  opening  her  blue  eyes  very 
wide,  with  a  baby  stare  that  wasn't  agreeable  at  all.  And 
why  did  she  call  father  Uncle  Lem  ?  He  was  not  her  uncle. 
Who  was  she,  anyway?  Father  seemed  pleased  to  have 
her  come  to  him  in  this  way.  He  put  his  hand  up  and 
patted  her  fingers  that  lay  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  had  company,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  this  is  only  Billy,"  was  the  reply.  "She's  be'n  in 
the  opery  business  for  a  spell."' 


250 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


"  Is  it  Billy  ?     Well,  why  don't  you  tell  her  I'm  Myra  ?" 

She  walked  around  the  table  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
me,  a  bit  of  a  hand  that  I  took,  though  I  did  not  care  to 
take  it. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Foster  ?"  I  asked,  formally. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  call  me  Miss  Foster !"  she  exclaimed. 
u  I'm  just  Myra,  that's  all.  I  d'  know  what  Bid  would  say 
to  hear  me  called  Miss  Foster  " — here  she  gurgled  a  laugh 
— "  do  you,  Uncle  Lem  ?  Ain't  it  funny  to  be  called  Miss 
Foster  ?" 

"Almighty  funny,  I  declare,"  said  father.  "Won't  ye 
se'  down  V  have  some  hot  biscuit?  My  wife  knows  how 
to  make  biscuit." 

Though  father  said  this,  he  was  eating  very  little  himself, 
and  he  used  to  be  very  fond  of  his  food,  taking  enormous 
quantities. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  the  new-comer.  "  Don't  you 
get  up,  Aunt  S'rissy" — as  mother  made  a  movement  to 
rise — "  I'll  get  my  plate  'n'  cup." 

She  tripped  into  the  pantry  and  came  back  with  the 
articles  she  had  mentioned. 


XV 

ANOTHER    CHANCE 


I  pretended  to  eat  ray  biscuit  and  drink  my  tea,  and  I 
tried  not  to  be  annoyed.  Myra  sat  opposite  me.  It  was 
so  dark  now,  for  our  supper  was  late,  that  a  lighted  lamp 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  its  rays  fell 
full  upon  her  face  as  upon  mine.  When  I  made  an  attempt 
to  look  at  our  guest  I  found  that  she  was  looking  at  me. 
Her  round,  doll  eyes  did  not  fall  as  they  met  mine,  as  why, 
indeed,  should  they  ?  She  chattered  almost  incessantly  and 
laughed. 

She  had  little  teeth  that  were  milk-white,  and  bright  red 
lips ;  there  was  a  dimple  in  her  left  cheek.  It  was  an  ex- 
tremely pretty  dimple  and  cheek.  Why  was  father  so 
pleased  with  her?  He  watched  her  and  laughed  at  her 
and  led  her  on.  I  saw  that  mother  only  smiled  in  her 
gentle  way,  and  that  she  did  not  seem  so  joyful  at  sight  of 
this  girl. 

"  I've  jest  eat  one  supper  at  Aunt  Rachel's, "  she  said  • 
"  ain't  it  funny  to  eat  two  suppers  close  together  ?  But  I 
made  the  biscuit  down  to  auntie's,  'n'  they  waVt  half  so 
good  as  these.  These  are  jest  tip-top,  I  call  urn.  Why  don't 
you  eat  more  of  urn.  Uncle  Lem  ?  D'you  know  Bid's  brown 
hoss,  the  nigh  one,  was  a  teenty-tonty  bit  lame  the  other 
day?  He  was  jest  as  worried  's  he  could  be.  I  told  him 
he  hadn't  a  friend  in  the  world  he'd  worry 'bout's  he  would 


252  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

'bout  one  of  them  brown  hosses.  Is  that  honey,  Aunt 
S'rissy,  in  that  bowl  ?  Oh,  ain't  it  clear  V  nice  ?  Our 
bees  never  make  honey  like  this." 

Having  put  a  honeyed  morsel  of  biscuit  into  her  mouth, 
she  was  of  necessity  silent  a  moment.  Father  gave  up 
making  an  attempt  to  eat.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  looking  amusedly  at  the 
girl.  He  did  not  notice  me,  and  hitherto  he  had  always 
been  talking  to  me,  or  laughing  with  me. 

"  They  ought  to  make  sweet  honey  with  you  'round,1'  he 
said  now.  Myra  bowed  deeply;  then  she  giggled  and  re- 
marked that  there  couldn't  none  of  the  young  men  pay  com- 
pliments equal  to  Uncle  Lem.  Uncle  Lem  beat  um  all.  I 
tried  to  smile  pleasantly.  I  was  ashamed  of  myself  that  it 
was  such  an  effort  to  smile  at  all.  Was  I  so  small  natured 
as  this  ?  I  made  a  great  effort.  I  asked  cordially  if  she 
did  not  find  it  lonesome  staying  with  Miss  Cobb.  "  Great 
Meadows  is  quite  a  village,  and  it's  so  very  quiet  here." 

"  Lonesome  !"  with  a  great  opening  of  eyes  and  uplifting 
of  brows.  "  Well,  I  guess  not !"  Here  father  chuckled, 
and  then  Myra  began  to  laugh,  showing  her  teeth,  h-er 
whole  face  having  something  the  appearance  of  a  fine 
baby's  face. 

"  There's  be'n  lots  to  take  up  a  gal's  mind  down  to 
Rachel's,"  said  father.  Myra  took  a  small  spoonful  of 
honey,  gazing  at  me  meanwhile.  When  she  had  swallowed 
the  honey  she  asked  me  if  I  could  sing  like  that  singer  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  in  Chilton.  She  had  heard 
that  woman  once  and  it  had  been  just  like  heaven. 

I  could  not  resist  saying  that  I  did  not  think  that  my 
singing  was  at  all  like  heaven.  Father  shoved  back  his 
chair  and  remarked  that  he  hoped  I  hadn't  come  back 
with  any  objections  to  smoking. 


ANOTHER   CHANCE  253 

"  Of  course  she  hasn't,"  said  mother.  There  was  an  anx- 
ious expression  in  mother's  eyes. 

Myra  now  declared  that  she  did  like  the  smell  of  a  pipe, 
and  she  thought  Uncle  Lem  smoked  better  tobacco  than 
anybody  she  knew ;  she  wished  Bid  would  smoke. 

She  remained  a  half-hour  longer,  prattling  incessantly. 
When  she  had  gone  father's  face  lost  its  smiling  look  of 
interest.  He  sat  smoking,  with  his  stockinged  feet  resting 
on  the  hearth  of  the  cook-stove.  I  washed  the  dishes  while 
mother  mixed  the  dough  for  rising  overnight.  It  was  warm 
with  the  fire  in  the  stove,  and  I  opened  the  back  door. 
The  sound  of  frogs  came  in  loudly  and  cheerfully  through 
the  mild  April  air. 

"I  wish  you'd  shet  that  door,"  cried  father,  "I  hate  that 
continual  peepinV 

Mother  closed  the  door  in  silence.  Presently  father 
went  to  bed.  He  left  the  room  without  saying  good-night 
to  us.  Mother  and  I  were  alone  together.  I  followed  her 
about  until  the  dough  was  set  in  a  big  pan  on  the  broad 
shelf  above  the  stove.  Then  we  sat  down  on  the  sofa  in 
the  sitting-room.  I  put  my  head  on  her  shoulder  and  she 
held  me  to  her  in  silence. 

I  had  not  known  how  tired  I  was  until  now.  After  a 
few  moments  my  eyes  closed — a  moment  more  and  I  was 
asleep.  It  was  not  until  nearly  an  hour  later  that  mother 
wakened  me,  saying  that  we  should  take  cold,  and  that  I 
must  go  to  bed.  Then  she  took  me  to  my  old  room.  She 
had  kept  it  ready  for  me ;  she  explained  that  she  liked  to 
have  it  so,  for  that  made  her  feel  as  if  I  were  coming  home. 
She  left  me,  saying  that  to-morrow,  when  I  was  rested,  we 
would  talk.  I  clung  to  her  for  an  instant,  then  I  let  her  go. 
I  slept  that  night  as  if  I  had  no  secret  that  I  had  not  the 
courage  to  tell,  and  as  if  there  were  no  trouble  in  the  world. 


254 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


The  next  day  we  did  not  talk,  though  mother  had  said 
that  we  should.  We  went  on  exactly  as  if  I  had  not  been 
away,  save  that  I  helped  about  the  house  more  tlian  I  had 
been  accustomed  to  do.  I  knew  now  that  I  should  not  be 
questioned,  and  that  I  was  to  be  left  to  tell  just  what  I 
pleased  of  my  life  during  the  last  few  months.  I  related 
very  freely  to  mother  everything  that  was  not  connected 
with  Vane.  When  I  mentioned  him  it  was  as  "  Mr.  Hil- 
dreth,"  and  my  tongue  refused  to  touch  the  one  subject  that 
never  left  my  thoughts.  I  was  wondering  when  Vane  would 
write.  I  longed  for  a  letter  from  him,  and  yet  I  dreaded  its 
coming.  He  could  send  me  a  word  before  he  sailed  j  after 
that  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  I  should  hear  again. 

The  next  day  father  did  not  go  to  the  village.  It  had 
been  his  custom  formerly  to  drive  there  nearly  every  day. 
But  I  would  not  speak  of  this  fact ;  I  would  wait ;  I  would 
not  even  ask  a  question.  The  day  following  he  did  not  go 
either.  This  was  hard  for  me.  Father  sat  a  good  deal  in 
the  three-cornered,  flag-bottomed  chair  by  the  stove.  This 
was  so  strange  that  I  tried  not  to  remark  upon  it.  I  did 
ask  mother  "  Isn't  father  well  ?"  and  she  answered,  "  He 
don't  complain  any." 

Myra  Foster  came  over  four  times  in  the  first  three  days, 
flitting  in  and  up  to  father  as  if  she,  and  not  I,  were  the 
daughter  of  the  house.  On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day 
there  was  a  trampling  of  hoofs  in  the  yard,  a  shrill  little 
laugh,  and,  looking  from  the  window,  I  saw  Myra  jump 
from  Bidwell's  open  buggy  before  he  could  leave  his  seat. 
He  glanced  at  the  house,  saw  me,  and  smiled  in  his  cheery 
way.  The  smile  was  so  much  brighter  than  anything  in 
our  house  that  it  quite  did  me  good.  I  thought  it  would 
be  pleasant  to  see  Bidwell  sometimes ;  but  evidently  he 
was  occupied. 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  255 

"Where's  Billy?" 

I  heard  Myra's  voice,  pitched  high,  asking  this  question, 
and  I  went  forward.  She  held  a  thick  letter  in  her  hand. 
My  heart  jumped.  It  surely  was  from  Vane — and  how  had 
he  addressed  it  ? 

"Wilhelmina  Armstrong/'  pronounced  Myra,  extending 
the  missive  to  me.  I  did  not  know  whether  the  hand  I  put 
forth  was  steady  or  not,  but  I  did  know  that  all  were  watch- 
ing me.  I  said  "  Thank  you,"  in  an  easy  way,  and  stood, 
holding  the  letter,  while  I  asked  the  girl  if  she  were  having 
a  pleasant  drive. 

"  Oh  yes,"  laughing  and  dimpling,  "  ever  so  good  ;  'n' 
now  we're  going  to  get  some  arbutus  ;  we'll  bring  you  some, 

Billy." 

She  flew  back  to  the  carriage  and  alighted  on  the  seat  by 
Bidwell  as  if  she  had  been  a  bird.  She  nodded  at  me  and 
called  out,  "  We'll  be  sure  to  bring  you  some  flowers." 
Then  the  brown  horses  were  turned  and  trotted  down  the 
road. 

"  I  wish  I  was  havin'  's  good  a  time  's  Bid  Blake's 
havinV  As  father  spoke  his  face  seemed  to  grow  black. 
I  remained  a  moment  standing  there  with  the  letter, 
which  was  burning  my  fingers.  No  one  seemed  to  notice 
that  I  had  it ;  and  presently  I  left  the  room  and  went  up- 
stairs to  my  chamber.  Even  then  I  could  not  at  first  open 
the  envelope.     Now  that  I  was  alone  I  suddenly  began  to 

tremble. 

Then  I  hurriedly  tore  the  paper  and  drew  out  the  folded 
sheets.     I  saw  the  words  "  My  wife  ! — my  love  ! — my  love  !" 

It  was  true,  then  ;  it  was  not  something  I  had  imagined. 
I  had  really  been  married  to  Vane  Hildreth  on  the  train  a 
few  days  ago.  Before  I  read  any  further  I  bolted  the  door. 
Then  I  sat  down,  and,  shivering  with   excitement,  thrilling 


256  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

to  the  love  written  on  the  sheets  before  me,  I  read  on  and 
on,  the  lines  telling  all  the  story  of  my  husband's  love  from 
the  moment  he  had  met  me — repeating  again  and  again — 
but  what  lover  does  not  repeat  ? 

There  is  no  need  to  give  the  letter  here.  Having  read 
it,  I  turned  back  to  the  first  page  and  devoured  it  once 
more.  How  fond  he  was — how  ardent — how  foolish  he  was 
about  Mr.  Maverick !  It  was  really  funny  that  he  should 
speak  in  that  way  about  Mr.  Maverick.  On  the  last  page 
Vane  mentioned  that  he  directed  his  letter  to  my  old  name, 
as  he  did  not  know  whether  I  would  announce  our  marriage 
before  his  return.  If  I  had  not  done  so,  perhaps  it  might 
be  as  well  to  wait  until  then  ;  but  that  should  be  left  with  me. 

Here  I  breathed  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  When  he  came 
back  everything  would  adjust  itself.  Then  I  could  tell 
father  and  mother.  Till  then — I  rose  and  stepped  softly 
about  the  room.  I  held  the  letter  clasped  closely  to  me. 
Till  then  I  would  stay  here  and  help  mother,  and  all  things 
should  be  as  they  had  been  before  I  left  home.  This  was 
what  the  foolish  girl  said  in  her  heart.  Did  she  not  know 
that,  having  tasted  another  life,  things  could  never  be  as 
they  had  been  ? 

I  did  not  dare  to  go  down-stairs  for  a  long  time.  I  was 
afraid  that  my  face  would  reveal  something  that  I  would 
wish  unrevealed.  At  last  1  dashed  water  on  my  burning 
cheeks  and  eyes,  and  then  joined  my  mother.  I  knew  that 
it  would  be  held  very  strange  if  I  should  not  speak  of  my 
letter;  so  I  said  as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room  that  Mr. 
Hildreth  had  written  to  me — he  was  just  starting  for  Liver- 
pool and  had  sent  me  a  long  letter;  he  had  a  fine  opening 
in  London  ;  he  expected  to  do  wonderfully  well. 

Father  sat  dozing  by  the  stove.  He  lifted  his  head, 
darted  a  keen  glance  at  me,  and  asked  : 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  257 

"  That"s  the  feller  that  got  his  bones  broke,  V  stopped  at 
Rachel's  so  long,  ain't  it  ?" 
"Yes." 

"  I  thought  so,"  and  father  laughed  in  a  way  that  made 
me  tingle  with  anger. 

But  he  said  no  more ;  he  appeared  to  go  to  sleep  again. 
In  the  weeks  that  followed  nothing  seemed  as  it  used  to 
seem.  On  the  third  day  from  the  arrival  of  that  first  letter 
from  Vane  I  received  another  sent  from  the  outgoing  steamer 
by  the  pilot,  but  this  one  I  happened  to  take  from  the  post- 
office  myself,  and  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  mention 
it.  Since  father  did  not  go  to  the  village  often,  I  took  it  upon 
myself  to  harness  one  of  the  horses,  or  sometimes  I  went  on 
horseback.  So  I  carried  my  letters  to  Vane,  or  received 
his,  which  came  by  every  steamer  which  brought  a  mail 
from  England.  But  when  one  was  delivered  to  me  by 
Myra,  or  Bidwell,  I  always  spoke  of  it  as  coming  from  Mr. 
Hildreth.  Xo  one  asked  me  any  questions.  I  was  thank- 
ful for  that,  but  it  was  strange  all  the  same. 

Aunt  Lowizy  had  come  back,  but  she  did  not  stay  ;  she 
went  to  Ryle  to  be  with  grandmother.  She  would  have  ques- 
tioned me,  and  showed  that  she  watched  me  ;  I  was  glad  to 
have  her  go.  She  manifested  such  unbounded  surprise  that 
I  was  at  home  that  I  could  hardly  restrain  my  irritation. 

I  worked  harder  than  I  had  ever  done  before.  I  took  the 
butter-making  from  mother,  and  butter-making  is  the  hard- 
est kind  of  labor. 

When  the  long  May  days  came  I  began  to  wander  down 
the  river  path  ;  and  I  began  to  sing.  I  took  up  the  practice 
where  I  had  left  it.  It  was  as  if  I  couldn't  help  doing  this. 
There  was  something  stirring  within  me  that  Miss  Runciman 
had  been  the  first  to  waken,  and  that  would  not  be  smoth- 
ered into  inaction.  I  must  sing — I  must  sing  better  and 
17 


258  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

better.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  bear  to  go  to  the 
falls,  and  to  the  place  where  the  house  carriage  had  been. 
How  long  ago  it  seemed  !     But  it  was  not  yet  a  year. 

The  thought  of  Miss  Runciman  was  a  bitter-sweet  one — 
she  had  been  so  kind  and  so  cruel ;  how  cruel  I  did  not 
yet  begin  to  realize.  She  had  taken  me  up  with  ardor  ;  she 
had  set  me  down  with  cold  scorn.  In  those  days  I  was  con- 
stantly asking  myself  if  there  were  not  some  way  in  which  I 
could  learn  to  sing.  I  would  not  think  of  Vane.  Until  the 
marriage  was  announced  I  was  still  free  to  do  as  I  would, 
or  rather  as  I  could.  All  the  time  this  goading  desire  to 
sing,  to  move  great  multitudes  with  my  voice,  grew  upon  me. 
I  thought  of  it  as  I  washed  dishes  and  as  I  "  worked  over  " 
the  butter. 

I  knew  that  father  would  not — perhaps  he  could  not — 
help  me  to  go  abroad  and  study.  Yes,  I  wanted  to  go  to 
Marchesi ;  that  was  the  name  Miss  Runciman  had  said. 
The  boldness,  the  daring,  of  this  wish  rather  overawed  me 
at  first ;  what  was  I  that  I  should  think  of  such  a  project  ? 
Sometimes  my  mind  was  so  filled  with  this  thought  that  the 
thought  of  Vane  was  below  it ;  still,  he  was  always  present 
with  me,  a  burning  thrill  of  memory,  or  the  more  quiet  con- 
sciousness. Possibly  it  was  the  secret  I  was  keeping  from 
mother  that  was  the  cause  ;  at  any  rate,  as  time  went  on  we 
had  none  of  those  confidential  talks  which  had  once  been 
such  a  comfort  to  me,  and  perhaps  to  her.  She  was  always 
gentle  and  patient  and  loving.  Often  as  I  sat  with  her  or 
worked  with  her  the  secret  I  carried  with  me  uncoiled,  as  if 
it  were  a  snake,  and  bit  me.  I  had  the  insane  idea  that  I 
could  see  its  mouth  open  and  its  forked  tongue  dart  out. 
Then  I  would  wish  to  throw  myself  at  mother's  feet  and 
tell  her  that  secret. 

I  knew  that  I  had  physical  courage,  which  is,  after  all, 


ANOTHER    CHANCE 


259 


but  a  poor  sort  of  thing  compared  with  the  thing  I  did  not 
have,  moral  courage.  I  could  not  bear  to  hurt  mother,  and 
I  could  not  bear  to  be  blamed.  Always,  since  I  can  remem- 
ber, this  fear  of  being  blamed  has  at  times  been  a  kind  of 
torture  to  me.  But  we  are  curious  beings,  we  humans,  for 
there  w7ere  some  things  in  which  I  would  persist,  whether  I 
were  approved  or  condemned.  I  would  not  drink  wine, 
though  my  companions  had  laughed  at  me  and  called  me  a 
"  temperance  reformer."  I  did  not  think  this  such  a  term 
of  reproach  as  they  thought  it.  And  Bathsheba  used  to 
smoke  cigarettes,  and  she  swore  occasionally,  rapping  out 
an  oath  as  fierce  and  pat  as  if  she  had  been  a  man.  I 
didn't  like  such  things,  and  I  didn't  feel  a  coward  about 
them ;  but  now,  here  at  home  with  father  and  mother  and  my 
secret,  I  couldn't  understand  myself.  It  was  now  for  the 
first  time  that  1  had  seasons  of  turning  my  thoughts  inward 
upon  my  own  character,  and  of  trying  to  interpret  it.  But 
I  had  no  more  success  than  I  fancy  others  have  at  the  same 
work.     We  are  riddles  to  our  own  selves. 

One  day  in  the  fourth  week  Bidwell  drove  into  our  yard  in 
his  farm  cart.  Tied  to  one  of  the  stakes  was  a  brindled  dog. 
From  the  dog's  collar  depended  a  small,  thin  board.  I  saw 
it  dangle  as  he  stood.  I  was  picking  up  chips  from  where 
father  had  been  making  hoop-poles  in  the  winter.  My  apron 
was  full  of  the  chips  as  I  stood  up  to  see  who  had  come. 
The  dog  looked  at  me  and  began  to  wag  his  whole  body 
violently  and  to  whine.    Of  course  I  knew  him  ;  it  was  Lotus. 

"  I've  got  something  for  you,"  called  Bidwell.  "  Found 
him  over  to  the  deepo  this  mornin',  'n1  they  wanted  me  to 
bring  him  along.  He's  ticketed  to  you,  Wilhelmina  Arm- 
strong, Worthing.     That's  you,  I  reckon." 

He  took  the  rope  from  the  dog's  neck  and  Lotus  leaped 
to  the  ground  and  dashed  at  me.     The  chips  fell  from  my 


260  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

apron,  and  I  nearly  fell  myself  before  the  onslaught.  Tears 
came  to  my  eyes,  but  I  succeeded  in  hiding  them  as  I  greet- 
ed the  new-comer.  I  knew  very  well  that  it  was  Vane  who 
had  had  the  dog  sent  to  me.  Bashy  had  informed  me  in 
the  winter  that  Lotus  was  in  the  country  with  a  friend.  I 
was  so  glad  to  see  him  that  I  was  afraid  Bidwell  would  see 
how  glad.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  notice.  He  took  off  his 
hat  and  handed  me  a  letter  from  it. 

"  B'n  to  the  office,"  he  remarked.  "  Folks  all  well  ?" 
I  nodded.  I  saw  the  letter  was  from  Bashy.  I  hardly 
noticed  Bidwell  as  he  drove  from  the  yard.  I  hurried  to 
the  woodshed  and  sat  down  on  the  chopping-block.  The 
dos:  hurried  with  me  and  threatened  to  make  it  difficult  for 
me  to  read  the  letter.  But  I  did  read  it;  it  was  short 
enough,  like  all  of  the  writer's  epistles. 

'*  My  Dear  Old  Billy, — Vane  wanted  me  to  have  Lotus  sent  to 
you.  I  ought  to  have  got  him  started  before,  but  somehow  I  didn't. 
Singing  business  over  for  the  year.  Aunt  Nora  isn't  well.  Her  voice 
almost  gave  out  at  the  last  of  it ;  but  she  managed  to  squeak  through. 
Critics  down  on  her — they  are  barbarians,  anyway.  They  say  I  flat 
more  than  I  did  the  first  of  the  season.  It's  rather  tough  being  with 
Aunt  Nora  when  she's  like  this.  One  day  she  said  she  missed  you. 
Think  of  that,  by  Jove  !  She's  a  queer  one  ;  but  she's  done  a  good 
deal  for  me.      Hope  you're  having  a  good  time  ;  I  ain't. 

"Your  Disconsolate  Bashy." 

Presently  I  again  filled  my  apron  with  chips  and  went 
back  to  the  house,  Lotus  at  my  heels.  I  was  willing  that 
mother  should  see  this  letter,  but  I  felt  awkward  about 
showing  this  when  I  had  not  shown  the  others. 

"  Whose  dorg's  that  ?"  asked  the  father,  crossly,  as  Lotus 
bounded  in.  I  hastened  to  explain  that  Bathsheba  Hil- 
dreth  had  sent  him.  Father,  who  was  lying  on  the  lounge, 
pushed  Lotus  from  him  as  he  exclaimed : 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  26 1 

;;  I  call  that  cheeky  enough  !  What  d'  she  think  you 
wanted  of  a  dorg,  I  sh'd  like  to  know?" 

I  made  no  answer.  I  put  some  of  the  chips  into  the 
stove  and  the  rest  went  into  the  wood-box.  Mother  came 
from  the  pantry  with  a  pan  of  skimmed  milk,  which  she 
gave  to  Lotus,  calling  him  "poor  doggie'1  in  her  gentle 
way.  I  wonder  if  mother  ever  knew  how  I  loved  her  ? 
Father  dropped  his  head  on  the  lounge  cushion  and  shut 
his  eyes.  From  that  time  Lotus  was  as  if  he  had  always 
belonged  with  us,  and  particularly  to  me  ;  but  he  never 
noticed  father,  and  father  did  not  notice  him. 

When  Myra  came  in  that  afternoon  she  made  a  great 
show  of  being  afraid  of  Lotus,  gave  little  cries,  and  ran 
to  father  to  be  protected.  I  didn't  in  the  least  believe  that 
she  was  timid,  for  all  her  behavior. 

It  was  not  long  after  that  day  that  I  came  cantering  home 
from  the  post-office  to  find  mother  coming  down  the  road 
to  meet  me.  It  was  June  now,  and  she  had  on  her  faded 
blue  sunbonnet;  but  the  bonnet  didn't  hide  the  pale,  anx- 
ious face.  She  came  right  to  the  horse's  head,  and  that 
was  something  strange  for  her  to  do.  She  caught  hold  of 
the  bridle,  and  I  saw  still  more  plainly  how  excited  she 
looked. 

"  He  has  come  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low  voice. 

I  started ;  I  must  have  grown  red,  then  white. 

"Vane  Hildreth  ?"  I  cried. 

She  gave  me  a  strange  look. 

"  I  was  sure  you  loved  him,"  she  said.  She  added  im- 
mediately :  "  Xo,  it's  not  Vane  Hildreth.  It's  the  other 
one." 

"  The  other  one  ?"  I  repeated,  confusedly. 

"Yes;  it's  Mr.  Maverick,  and  he's  waiting  to  see  you." 

Here  she  laid  hold  of  my  skirt,  but  did  not  let  go  the 


262  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

bridle.  We  were  in  the  road  just  outside  of  the  yard.  I 
remember  that  I  heard  the  sound  of  father's  hoe  in  the 
garden  back  of  the  barn. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  said  mother,  in  a  sharp  voice. 

I  was  agitated  myself,  and  intensely  curious,  but  I  could 
not  see  why  mother  should  be  so  excited.  Her  large,  sen- 
sitive eyes  were  dilated  painfully,  and  her  cheeks  were  red. 

"  Don't  go  yet,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  voice. 

"  No,  no.     Why,  mother,  why  do  you  feel  so  ?" 

I  bent  down  and  put  my  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Mr. 
Maverick  can't  harm  me,"  I  added,  "  and  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  he  is  here.  It's  probable  that  he  was  travelling 
near  the  town,  and  so  thought  he  would  call.  What  are 
you  afraid  of,  mother  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid  ;  oh,  I'm  afraid  of  everything  !"  she  exclaim- 
ed, still  in  her  half-whisper.    "  My  dream,  Billy,  my  dream  !" 

I  couldn't  help  shuddering  as  she  spoke.  I  had  forgot- 
ten her  dream,  but  I  remembered  it  now  distinctly.  I  threw 
up  my  head  and  laughed. 

"  I  hope  we  are  not  so  foolish  as  that,"  I  said. 

"And  I  saw  his  diamond  on  his  finger,"  went  on  mother. 
"  It  sparkled  so,  and  shone  so,  right  into  my  eyes — jest  as 
if  it  were  laughing  at  me ;  jest  as  if  it  was  tellin'  me  that 
no  matter  what  I  felt,  he  was  going  to  have  his  own 
way." 

I  laughed  again,  but  I  was  not  merry.  There  was  a  wild 
look  in  mother's  eyes. 

"  Don't  you  fear,"  I  said,  soothingly. 

But  mother  did  not  let  go  of  my  skirt  or  of  the  bridle. 
It  was  pitiable  to  see  her  fingers  clutch. 

"  I've  suffered,"  she  said,  "  these  months  back.  I've  suf- 
fered, 'n'  I've  had  to  keep  it  all  to  myself.  Don't  go  with 
him,  Wilhelmina ;  don't  go  with  him  !" 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  263 

"Why,  mother,  of  course  I  shaVt  go  with  him,"  I  an- 
swered in  as  calm  a  voice  as  I  could  command. 

"Promise  !"  she  commanded. 

I  was  becoming  more  and  more  alarmed.  I  did  not  like 
to  give  my  word,  and  this  seemed  unnecessary.  Seeing 
my  hesitation,  mother's  face  grew  in  excitement. 

"  You've  got  to  promise,"  she  cried,  but  always  in  the 
half-whisper.  "  If  you  do  I  shall  know  you  won't  break  it, 
spite  of  that  man's  eyes.'1 

"  Well,  then,  I  promise,"  I  answered,  "but  there  isn't  the 
slightest  need." 

Mother  sighed  deeply ;  she  loosed  her  grasp  of  bridle  and 
skirt.  She  plainly  tried  to  regain  her  usual  manner,  but  as 
plainly  could  not  succeed  at  first.  Her  lips  trembled  as 
they  formed  something  like  a  smile. 

"I  guess  you'll  think  I'm  'most  crazy,"  she  said,  "but 
I've  been  through  a  lot  sence  you  left  home,  V  I  guess  I 
couldn't  stan'  much  more." 

I  reached  down  and  caught  her  hand. 

"Dear  mother,"  I  cried  in  a  whisper,  "you  needn't  bear 
anything  more." 

Then  I  thought  of  my  secret.  I  am  tempted  to  write  that 
word  with  a  capital,  and  I  wished  that  I  had  told  her  when 
I  first  came  home.  But  I  had  felt  that  it  would  shock  her 
so,  and  grieve  her  so,  and — well,  something  outside  of  me 
seemed  holding  me  back — only  I  knew  really  it  was  only 
my  own  cowardice  which  held  me.  She  looked  up  plead- 
ingly into  my  face. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?"  she  asked. 

Then  I  did  not  reply.  I  only  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  you  know 
I  don't  want  to  do  anything  to  trouble  you !" 

Mother  turned  away  and  I  rode  into  the  barn.  I  slipped 
down  from  the  saddle  and  put  the  hook  of  the  hitch-chain 


264  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

into  the  ring  of  the  horse's  bit.  I  stood  there  an  instant. 
I  pulled  off  my  gloves  and  pressed  my  hands  to  my  hot 
face.  Then  I  hurried  to  the  house  and  into  the  gloomy 
parlor  where  Mr.  Maverick  sat  waiting. 

He  rose  as  the  door  opened  and  came  forward  quickly. 
How  well  fed  and  well  groomed  he  looked !  And  somehow 
I  resented  this  fact. 

He  took  my  hand  firmly  and  looked  intently  at  me  as  he 
said : 

"  After  all,  the  country's  the  place,  isn't  it  ?" 

I  withdrew  my  hand. 

"The  country  is  lovely  in  June,"  I  responded. 

Mr.  Maverick  drew  forward  a  chair,  saw  me  seated,  and 
then  sat  down  in  front  of  me.  A  ray  of  sunlight,  coming 
through  a  chink  in  the  blind,  brought  an  answering  ray 
from  his  diamond  that  flashed  in  my  eyes. 

I  had  seen  many  gems  while  with  Miss  Runciman,  but 
for  some  reason  this  gem  from  the  first  had  a  peculiar  sig- 
nificance for  me.  That  was  a  fancy,  like  fancies  that  had 
come  to  my  mother  ever  since  I  could  remember. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !"  he  replied,  enthusiastically.  "  I 
walked  up  the  river  path  from  the  falls.  Ah,  isn't  that  Hil- 
dreth's  dog  ?" 

The  door  had  not  been  latched,  and  it  was  now  pushed 
open  by  Lotus,  who  walked  in  and  sat  down  by  me,  very 
close,  as  if  I  might  need  protecting. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  Bathsheba  sent  it  here." 

"  Good  fellow  !     Give  a  paw,  sir  !" 

Mr.  Maverick  reached  forward  a  hand,  but  Lotus  only 
grinned  in  a  very  suggestive  way. 

The  gentleman  smiled. 

"Dogs  have  their  notions,"  he  remarked.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  not  at  all  discomposed. 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  265 

';  I  hear  Hildreth  is  doing  finely — finely  —  across  the 
water,"  he  went  on.  "  It  was  the  opening  of  his  lifetime — 
splendid  chance.  To  be  with  Alford  gives  one  magnificent 
prestige.    I  suppose  you  hear  from  him,  Miss  Armstrong?" 

I  resented  this  question,  but  I  sat  up  straight  and  an- 
swered, promptly,  "  Yes,  I  hear  from  him." 

Mr.  Maverick  twirled  a  little  gold  book  that  hung  on  his 
watch-chain.  He  was  looking  steadily  at  me,  and  my  color 
began  to  rise. 

•■I  really  hope,  Miss  Armstrong,"  he  began,  :'that  your 
affections  haven't  become  entangled  by  Hildreth.  Capital 
singer,  and  destined  to  be  better,  but  not  the  man  for  a 
woman  to  love — that  is,  for  a  woman  like  you." 

I  said  nothing;  I  was  so  angry  that  I  could  not  speak; 
besides,  I  had  nothing  to  say,  and  I  was  indignant  with  my- 
self because  his  words,  though  I  did  not  believe  them,  were 
yet  like  a  poison  diffusing  itself  through  my  mind. 

Mr.  Maverick  was  perfectly  at  his  ease.  He  smiled  as  he 
asked  me  to  pardon  him.  He  said  that  there  were  things 
concerning  Hildreth  that  he  might  communicate  to  me,  but 
that  he  was  no  melodramatic  creature  coming  to  the  heroine 
of  a  story  to  tell  her  a  dreadful  secret  concerning  a  man  who 
wanted  to  be  her  lover. 

Here  the  speaker  put  his  hand  up  to  his  mustache  and 
laughed  gently.  He  conveyed  the  idea  that  it  was  utterly 
absurd  and  out  of  the  question  that  I  could  think  of  Vane 
as  my  lover. 

I  did  not  reply  to  this  remark  either,  and  Mr.  Maverick 
changed  his  position,  now  sitting  sidewise  in  his  chair,  with 
his  arm  on  the  back,  looking  at  me. 

"  But  I  didn't  come  here  to  talk  about  Hildreth  or  any 
one  else  save  yourself,  Miss  Armstrong — just  you,  yourself. 
Are  you  interested  to  have  me  tell  you  a  few  things  ?" 


266  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

Here  he  waited  for  a  reply,  and  I  answered  yes.  I  was 
very  uncomfortable  and  extremely  vexed,  but  I  was  inter- 
ested. 

"  It's  about  your  singing,"  he  said,  and  here  I  involunta- 
rily bent  forward  a  little  ;  then  I  drew  myself  up  again. 

"  You  have  superb  promise — glorious  promise,"  he  went 
on,  his  manner  growing  enthusiastic.  "  If  nothing  happens 
to  you,  you  may  command  the  world." 

I  felt  my  eyes  dilate  and  my  face  redden,  but  I  tried  not 
to  be  so  affected.  My  pulses  were  beginning  to  beat  in 
that  suffocating  way  that  is  so  difficult  to  control.  To  sing 
— to  sing  and  move  myself,  and  the  multitudes  who  heard 
me — was  that  an  ignoble  ambition?  How  cruel — how  dia- 
bolically cruel — Miss  Runciman  had  been  to  awaken  this 
ambition  and  then  to  fling  me  away  as  she  had  done !  I 
felt  that  I  hated  her.  But  even  at  this  moment  I  could  not 
help  recalling  her  moments  of  exquisite  kindness,  recalling 
them  with  a  sudden  melting  of  the  heart. 

Mr.  Maverick  rose  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room. 
He  filled  and  pervaded  it. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand,  "  it  is  a  sin,  a 
crime,  if  you  are  to  be  buried  here.  I  cannot  allow  it !  I 
will  not  allow  it !  You  must  study — why,  with  your  powers, 
the  beginning  you  have  made,  perhaps  a  year's  study  with 
Marchesi  would  be  enough.  You  have  that  wonderful 
electrifying  power — you  start  the  blood — you  appeal  to  the 
heart — your  voice  goes  to  the  very  life  of  your  listener. 
Are  you  going  to  let  it  waste  here  ?  Are  you  willing  to  sink 
down  again  into  a  mere  New  England  country  girl,  when 
you  can  sing  with  the  voice  of  an  angel  and  of  a  woman  ? 
I  tell  you,  Wilhelmina  Armstrong,  if  you  contemplate  such 
a  thing  I  won't  allow  it — no,  I  won't  allow  it.  I'd  take  you 
away  forcibly — I  declare  I'd  abduct  you  and  carry  you  to 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  267 

Marchesi  before  you  should  bury  your  talent — nay,  your 
genius  —  here.  Once  with  Marchesi,  once  in  the  singing 
atmosphere,  and  I'll  wager  nothing  could  take  you  away, 
nothing.  Fancy  yourself  standing  on  that  mimic  stage 
where  Marchesi's  pupils  sing — fancy  singing  to  ears  that 
can  appreciate,  to  a  taste  and  experience  that  can  direct 
and  instruct,  until  you  are — Miss  Armstrong,  it  is  I  who  tell 
you  that  you  can  be  the  equal  of  any  prima  donna  who  has 
ever  intoxicated  the  world.  You  see,  after  all,  that  Miss 
Runciman  couldn't  endure  to  have  you  sing  better  than  she  ? 
What  woman  could  endure  it  ?  You  sang  with  even  more 
promise  than  she  had  expected.  She  told  herself  that  she 
would  give  you  your  chance — but  she  could  not  keep  to  her 
resolve.  It  was  too  much — too  much.  Could  she  stand  up 
and  hand  you  her  sceptre — yes,  more  than  that?  It  was 
grand  of  her  to  think  she  could  do  it ;  but  it  was  natural  to 
find  that  she  could  not.  She  has  suffered  much  ;  I  don't 
believe  deeply  in  Leonora  Runciman,  but  she  has  suffered 
much,  and  I'm  sorry  for  her.  She  is  losing  her  voice.  By 
Jove  !  I'm  sorry  for  her.     So  would  you  be."' 

He  stopped  in  front  of  me.  I  had  risen  to  my  feet.  I 
could  not  sit  still  and  hear  his  words,  every  one  of  them  like 
a  torch  that  left  fire  behind  it. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said,  huskily,  "I  am  sorry  for  her." 
But  I  was  not  thinking  of  Miss  Runciman,  save  superfi- 
cially. I  was  not  really  thinking ;  I  was  longing  to  begin 
now— now — to  study  to  become  what  this  man  said  I  might 
become.  He  had  spoken  with  impetuous  and  ardent  em- 
phasis ;  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  the  truth  of  his  convic- 
tion as  to  what  I  would  be  able  to  do,  and  he  was  a  judge ; 
he  knew  of  what  he  spoke.  My  soul  was  "  up  in  arms."  I 
twisted  my  fingers  together  tightly — I  must  make  some 
bodily  movement.     In  a  moment,  however,  I  recalled  the 


268  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

truth  ;  and  the  truth  was  that  I  could  not  study  to  become 
a  singer.  I  had  no  money.  And  Vane — I  was  married — 
what  would  my  husband  think  ?  He  should  be  consulted. 
My  close-clasped  hands  unclasped  and  dropped  apart.  A 
chill  came  to  me.  "No,"  I  said,  "all  this  is  not  for 
me." 

"  Not  for  you  ?     Pardon  me,  for  you  above  all  others." 

Mr.  Maverick's  eyes  caught  mine  and  held  them  domi- 
natingly. 

"  Is  it  that  you  have  no  money  ?"  he  asked. 

"  It  is  true  that  I  have  no  money,"  I  replied. 

"  That  objection  might  be  overcome,"  he  replied,  quickly. 

"  No,"  I  said  again,  "  and  there  are  other  reasons,  strong 
reasons,  why  I  cannot  think  of  such  a  project." 

I  was  trying  to  be  reasonable.  Who  is  it  that  has  written 
that  to  be  reasonable,  to  use  common-sense,  is  sometimes 
like  lying  down  upon  paving-stones  ?  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
making  my  bed  upon  paving-stones,  and  the  sooner  I  be- 
came accustomed  to  such  a  bed  the  better  for  me.  Did 
you  ever  think  how  piteous  it  is  for  the  human  being  of 
splendid  possibilities  and  opportunities  to  turn  from  the 
glory  of  them  and  take  up  with  hard  and  arid  days  ?  Aye, 
but  that  way  heroism  may  lie.  And  I  was  not  made  for 
heroism,  I  feared.  Why  had  this  man  come  to  talk  thus 
to  me  ?  He  did  not  apparently  yield  at  all  in  his  resolu- 
tion. 

"  I  won't  admit  the  other  reasons,"  he  answered, 
promptly.     "Let  us  attack  and  demolish  them." 

"  No,  no  !" 

He  smiled.  "  Yes,  yes.  Now,  listen  to  me.  God  has 
given  you  a  voice  that  you  might  make  the  most  of  it.  I'm 
an  instrument  in  His  hands.  I'm  going  to  lend  you  money 
— only  just  enough — it  will  not  take  so  very  much,  for  I 


ANOTHER    CHANCE  269 

know  you'll  be  economy  itself.  But  the  lessons  are  expen- 
sive and  must  be  paid  tor.  This  is  an  investment  of  mine. 
I  choose  to  put  two  or  three  thousand  dollars,  as  the  case 
may  be,  into  your  hands.  You  give  me  your  note  prom- 
ising to  pay  with  interest,  and  you  can  easily  pay  me  the 
first  year  you  begin  to  sing.  I  shall  then  have  saved  to  the 
world  a  voice  for  which  the  world  will  thank  me.  You 
perceive  that  I  don't  consider  your  own  satisfaction  at  all. 
Merely  a  business  transaction.  There  can  be  absolutely 
no  objection  to  this  arrangement.  Miss  Armstrong,  you 
can't  bring  an  objection.  I'm  going  abroad  this  summer. 
I'll  see  Marchesi — I'll  attend  to  every  detail.  Very  early 
in  the  fall  you  will  go— you  will  find  even  your  room  en- 
gaged, and  your  chum,  some  American  girl  studying  like 
yourself,  secured/' 

As  he  spoke,  Mr.  Maverick  would  take  a  few  steps  about 
the  room,  then  return  to  my  side,  his  words  coming  swiftly, 
warmly,  and  with  that  accent  of  conviction  which  goes  so 
far  towards  convincing  another.  His  eyes,  with  a  peculiar, 
concentrated  glitter  in  them,  appeared  to  seize  my  gaze 
and  hold  it. 

No  words  within  my  reach  can  tell  how  powerfully  I  was 
tempted  to  say  yes.  I  was  not  afraid  to  borrow  the  money; 
I  was  positive  I  could  return  it  ;  it  was,  as  he  said,  only 
a  business  transaction  ;  it  involved  no  emotion,  and  no 
gratitude  that  was  unbearable.  Oh,  to  be  free  to  take  this 
chance,  to  step  forward  into  this  life  ! 

I  turned  away  from  my  companion.  I  could  sing,  then  ! 
I  was  not  mistaken — I  could  sing.  I  walked  to  the  win- 
dow. The  light  there  struck  blindingly  upon  my  eyes.  How 
could  I  have  given  that  promise  to  my  mother  ?  She  did 
not  know.  The  old  did  not  know  for  the  young  —  they 
could   never   know.     They    had   lived   their   lives.     Xow 


270  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

they  should  let  the  young  also  live.     Oh,  I  must  learn  to 
sing ! 

Without  a  word  of  explanation  to  Mr.  Maverick  I  ran  out 
of  the  room.  I  would  find  mother.  Surely  I  could  make 
her  understand,  and  she  would  release  me. 


XVI 

CHANGE 

I  entered  the  kitchen  first.  Father  had  come  in  from 
the  garden  and  was  pumping  water  at  the  sink.  He  stopped 
as  I  hurried  forward.  He  had  the  tin  dipper  in  his  hand, 
and  was  about  to  drink.  I  had  ceased  to  expect  that  he 
would  seem  to  me  as  he  used  to  seem.  He  gazed  at  me 
over  the  edge  of  the  dipper. 

"  Where's  mother  ?"'  I  asked,  quickly. 

"  I  d'  know7,"  he  answered. 

I  was  going  to  pass  him,  when  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"  What  ye  up  to  now  ?"  sharply.  "  What  does  that  man 
want  ?" 

I  hesitated.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  not  tell  father  what  was 
Mr.  Maverick's  errand.  Father's  eyes  were  full  of  a  hostile 
curiosity= 

"  What  does  he  want  ?''  he  repeated.  "  You'd  better  send 
him  away.  I've  had  enough  of  your  actions,  Wilhelminy — 
goin'  off  V  pretendin'  to  learn  to  sing — 'n  turnin'  a  cold 
shoulder  to  Bid — 'n'  comin'  back  'thout  amountin'  to  any- 
thing. You  ain't  neither  one  thing  nor  another  now.  'X' 
there's  Bid's  been  sensible  enough  to  take  up  with  a  gal 
that  'ain't  got  no  silly  notions — cute  gal,  too,  and  one  that 
knows  she  can't  run  across  a  feller  like  Bid  every  day. 
You  didn't  care  to  do  anything  to  please  yer  father — you 
didn't  care  how  yer  father  got  'long — 'n'  spent  lots  of  money 


272 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


on  ye.  But  what's  he  got  for  it  ?  Nothing  jest  nothin'. 
Git  out !"  This  last,  with  a  kick  towards  Lotus,  who  had 
just  walked  in  from  the  other  room. 

I  stood  quite  still.  Father  looked  at  me  as  if  he  hated 
me.  And  was  there  not  an  odor  of  whiskey  on  his  breath  ? 
This  last  suspicion  I  immediately  put  from  me.  I  could 
not  try  to  explain  anything  to  him.  What  could  I  ex- 
plain ? 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  I  began,  weakly ;  then  I  stopped  be- 
fore the  fury  in  his  face. 

"  Sorry !"  he  repeated,  with  great  scorn.  "  You  ain't  sorry, 
neither.  You  don't  care.  If  you  had  cared  you'd  got  en- 
gaged to  Bidwell  's  I  wanted  ye  to.  Pooh !  Jest  's  if  you 
cared  what  become  of  me,  anyway !  'N'  what  you  keepin' 
up  writin'  to  that  singin'  feller  for  ?  You  hear  from  him 
real  often.  You  think  I'm  blind  V  don't  know  nothin'  ? 
Not  by  a  long  chalk  !" 

A  quickly  moving  figure  was  seen  in  the  yard. 

"  There's  Myra — she  knows  when  she's  well  off — she  does. 
I  tell  you  it  makes  me  thunderin'  mad  to  have  you  turn  out 
so;  and  we  not  knowin'  which  way  to  turn." 

Father  set  down  the  tin  dipper  with  a  clash  in  the  iron 
sink.  Then  he  hurried  out  of  the  house  in  a  way  to  avoid 
Myra,  who  tripped  in  with  her  flat  sweet  smile  on  her  face, 
and  asked,  with  a  pretty  vivaciousness  : 

"  Where's  Uncle  Lem  ?  I  thought  I  seen  Uncle  Lem  in 
here."  She  glanced  at  my  face,  which  I  was  fiercely  trying 
to  get  under  control.  "Mercy!  What's  the  matter  ?  Has 
anything  happened?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  "  nothing  has  happened.  If  you'll  ex- 
cuse me  I'll  find  mother.     I  have  a  visitor  in  the  parlor." 

But  Myra  hastened  to  the  door,  saying  that  she  hadn't 
meant  to  stop,  and  must  hurry  right  along.     I  said  nothing 


CHANGE  212> 

to  detain  her.  I  ran  through  the  sitting-room  and  pantry 
trying  to  find  mother.  I  looked  from  the  window  and  saw 
her  going  through  the  orchard.  In  a  moment  I  was  at  her 
side.     I  caught  hold  of  her  hand. 

"Mother!  mother!1'  I  cried,  "you  must  let  me  go  !  You 
must  give  me  back  my  promise  !  Oh,  I  must  have  the 
chance  to  learn  to  sing !" 

I  can  never  forget  the  face  she  turned  to  me.     Now  I 
know  that  it  was  full  of  grief  and  disappointment — disap- 
pointment in  her  daughter.     She  waited  a  little  before  she- 
spoke.     Then  she  said,  calmly  : 

"  Yes,  I  give  you  back  your  promise.  You  must  do  as 
you  think  best.  You  are  a  grown  woman.  You  must  do  as 
you  think  best." 

I  did  not  stop  to  thank  her.  My  only  feeling  just  then 
was  that  of  release— freedom.  A  moment  later  I  opened 
the  parlor  door.  Mr.  Maverick  had  been  standing  by  the 
window.  He  turned  quickly  towards  me.  He  looked 
much  moved  as  he  grasped  my  hands. 

"  You  have  changed  your  mind  !"  he  exclaimed. 

I  have  never  been  quite  able  to  understand  what  it  was 
that  influenced  me  then,  that  came  almost  like  an  audible 
voice  commanding  me.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  look 
in  my  companion's  eyes  — the  look  from  which  I  shrank. 
Instead  of  saying  yes,  I  said  "No"  in  a  loud,  hard  voice; 
and  I  snatched  my  hands  away.     Mr.  Maverick  grew  pale. 

"I  have  resolved,"  he  responded, in  a  very  low  tone. 

Then,  notwithstanding  my  wish  that  my  eyes  should  not 
meet  his  glance,  they  did  meet  it,  and  were  held  just  as  my 
hand  might  be  held  in  an  unyielding  grasp. 

"  I  have  resolved,"  he  repeated. 

I  made  no  response.  I  stood  there  looking  at  him. 
Though  I  could  not  remove  my  gaze,  I  felt  my  resolution 

18 


274  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

not  to  assent  to  his  proposition  growing  and  intensifying, 
and  I  was  becoming  angry.  What  sort  of  force  was  he  try- 
ing to  use  upon  me  ?  I  knew  little  or  nothing  of  the  occult 
talk  of  the  day.  A  sort  of  fright  began  to  mingle  with  my 
anger.  Every  instant  that  I  yielded  was  making  my  resist- 
ing power  less — and  I  would  not  yield.  In  a  vague  sort  of 
way  I  was  telling  myself  that  this  was  why  this  man's  eyes 
had  always  seemed  so  peculiar  to  me. 

Then  a  faint  film  came  over  my  own  vision;  my  eyelids 
became  heavy,  I  could  not  keep  them  up.  But  I  would  not 
let  them  fall.  I  made  an  effort  which  appeared  to  take 
every  particle  of  moral  and  physical  strength  I  possessed. 
I  moved  ;  I  looked  towards  the  window  ;  I  saw  the  blessed 
sunlight  outside ;  I  heard  a  robin  murmur  on  the  lilac.  I 
put  my  hand  to  my  forehead.  Confusedly  I  was  aware  that 
Mr.  Maverick  uttered  some  kind  of  an  ejaculation.  His 
voice  sounded  fierce.  I  was  not  looking  in  his  eyes  now. 
I  had  escaped,  and  he  knew  I  had  escaped.  He  moved 
quickly  nearer  to  me.  He  tried  to  take  my  hands  again, 
but  they  were  clasped  behind  me. 

"Miss  Armstrong,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  half -whisper, 
"surely — surely,  you  must  know  that  I  love  you!  You  must 
know  that." 

I  was  trembling.  I  could  not  tell  whether  I  feared 
this  man  more  than  I  hated  him.  How  could  I  have 
thought  of  allowing  him  to  do  me  a  favor  ?  I  did  not 
reply.  I  thought  that  I  could  not  speak.  I  turned  my 
eyes  again  towards  the  sunlight,  which  had  never  been  so 
beautiful. 

"  And  I  have  a  right  to  love  you."  I  heard  these  words, 
and  they  made  me  turn  towards  my  companion.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  strange  thing  that  not  until  this  instant  of  the  inter- 
view had  I  remembered  Vane.     But  now  the  memory  of 


CHANGE 


275 


him  came  to  me  with  great  sweetness  and  strength.  And  I 
recalled  his  words.  "  I  am  jealous  of  Maverick." 

"  Nothing  can  prevent  my  loving  you,"  went  on  Mr. 
Maverick,  authoritatively,  "and  winning  you.  too." 

He  was  standing  now  very  erect,  head  upflung  and  feat- 
ures set ;  his  eyes  shining  under  their  brows.  He  was  very 
white,  and  there  were  drops  of  moisture  on  his  forehead. 

'"Yes,"  I  returned,  "I  shall  prevent  you.  If  we  should 
live  ten  thousand  years,  I  should  never  love  you.'' 

As  I  spoke  I  grew  more  confident.  My  indignation  at 
the  attempt  he  had  made  to  hypnotize  me  was  so  great  that 
it  stimulated  me.  I  began  to  wonder  now  how  I  could 
have  been  affected  in  the  least.  He  smiled,  and  his  smile 
was  so  exasperating  that  I  felt  that  I  could  not  stay  in  the 
room  with  him.  I  turned  and  put  my  hand  on  the  latch  of 
the  door. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  go,"  said  he,  quickly.  "  I  will  be  the 
one  to  go." 

He  walked  to  the  table,  where  he  had  placed  his  hat. 
With  his  hat  in  his  hand  he  came  towards  me  again,  and 
now  I  saw  that  in  that  brief  time  his  whole  aspect  had 
changed  greatly.  The  assertion  in  his  manner  was  gone. 
He  stopped  in  front  of  me. 

"  Bear  with  me  for  a  moment  longer,"  he  said,  with  gentle- 
ness.    "You  must  not  be  angry  because  I  love  you." 

••  No,"  I  answered,  "  I'm  not  angry  with  you  for  that  rea- 
son." 

"  Thank  you  for  so  much,"  he  returned,  "  and  you  must 
not  let  me  go  away  without  hope — even  the  smallest  grain 
of  hope  I  will  be  content  with  now — no,  not  content,  but  I 
will  endure  with  courage  whatever  happens.  You'll  give  me 
that  smallest  hope,  Miss  Armstrong  ?" 

It  is  true  that  there  was  something  very  winning  in  his 


276  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

manner  now;  or  this  something  would  have  been  winning 
had  it  not  been  for  the  experience  of  the  tew  moments  pre- 
vious. 

"  No,"  I  said  again. 

Mr.  Maverick  looked  down  at  his  hat ;  he  passed  it  round 
and  round  in  his  hands,  and  I  watched  him  mechanically, 
absorbedly.  The  diamond  on  his  finger  flashed  a  ray  at 
me.  All  at  once,  as  in  a  scene  in  a  theatre,  there  came  be- 
fore me  the  parlor  of  the  hotel  in  Chilton  where  I  had  first 
seen  this  man  when  I  had  gone  to  meet  Miss  Runciman. 
What  if  I  had  never  gone  to  meet  Miss  Runciman  ?  Why 
are  we  so  foolish  and  weak  as  to  ask  such  questions  of  fate, 
for  fate  will  not  answer? 

"  You  are  sure  that  you  can  never  love  me  ?" 

He  put  this  question  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"T  am  sure,"  I  answered. 

"  Ah,  well,  then,  nothing  remains  for  me  but  to  say  good- 
morning." 

He  now  raised  his  glance  to  my  face.  His  eyes  were  not 
good  to  see,  and  mine  instantly  fell  before  them. 

"Before  I  go,"  he  went  on,  "let  me  say  that  you  need 
not  attribute  what  I  have  said  about  your  voice  to  anything 
but  the  coolest  judgment,  uninfluenced  by  my  feeling  for 
you.  Your  voice  is  your  talent.  If  you  do  not  make  use  of 
it  you  commit  a  sin  against  yourself  and  against  the  world. 
And  now,  good-morning.  Sorry  to  have  intruded  thus  upon 
you,  I'm  sure.     All  good  fortune  attend  you." 

He  passed  through  the  door,  out  into  the  sunshine;  with 
his  hat  still  in  his  hand,  he  turned  back  and  said,  smil- 
ingly : 

"  I  beg,  Miss  Armstrong,  that  you  will  not  put  too  much 
faith  in  Vane  Hildreth ;  capital  fellow,  and  fine  tenor,  still 
— but,  good-morning,  good-morning." 


CHANGE  277 

He  walked  down  the  narrow  path  that  led  to  the  gate 
between  the  two  rows  of  dark-green  box.  At  the  gate  he 
looked  back  once  more,  swung  off  his  hat  to  me,  and  then 
went  briskly  along  the  road.  I  stood  in  the  doorway  watch- 
ing him  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  Then  I  hurried  into  the 
house,  intent  only  on  finding  my  mother.  Again  I  could 
not  find  her  in  any  of  the  rooms,  and  I  ran  into  the  or- 
chard. I  knew  mother's  ways— her  "  Second  Advent  ways," 
father  used  to  call  them.  The  low  drooping  apple-tree 
branches  brushed  roughly  against  my  head  as  I  went. 
Yes,  there  on  the  slope  to  the  west,  under  the  sweet  rus- 
set tree,  was  my  mother  on  her  knees.  I  saw  her  arms 
clasped  about  the  tree-trunk,  and  her  head  laid  against  the 
bark.  Should  I  never  get  to  her  to  comfort  her?  I  threw 
myself  down  by  her  side. 

"Mother!  mother!"  I  cried,  "he  has  gone!  That  man 
has  gone  !" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  me. 

"Don't  tell  me  that,"  she  said,  "if  you  are  to  go,  too." 

Before  I  could  make  any  reply  to  this,  mother,  still  on 
her  knees,  turned  about  and  grasped  me  by  the  shoulders. 

"  I've  had  a  vision,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  shrill,  and 
unlike  her  voice.  "  Since  I've  been  here  I've  seen  myself, 
myself  as  I  was  at  your  age,  come  back  to  me — come  walk- 
ing up  from  the  meadow  down  there.  How  curious  it  was  ! 
It  was  like  me,  and  it  was  like  you,  too,  Wilhelminy." 

"  Don't,  mother,  don't !"  I  cried  out. 

"  Let  me  go  on.  You  needn't  think  I'm  out  of  my  head, 
Miny.  You  jest  listen,  V  don't  you  be  frightened.  Yes,  I 
came  up  from  the  meadow,  and  I  was  just  as  I  was  when  I 
married  your  father,  only  I  had  your  eyes,  my  little  girl ; 
and  havin'  your  eyes,  p'raps,  made  me  able  to  understand 
"bout  things,  V  see  them  plainly. 


278  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  Yes,  that  girl  walked  up  to  me  and  she  put  one  finger 
on  my  shoulder  so,"  touching  me,  "  and  she  said,  '  S'rissy, 
don't  hold  her  back — don't  hold  her  back.1 

"  Then  I  burst  out  that  I  must — I  must  hold  you  back — 
I  couldn't  let  you  go.  And  then  this  girl,  that  was  me 
and  you  both,  looked  at  me  with  your  eyes  and  she  said, 
'She's  gone,  S'rissy — she's  gone.  Now  you  must  let — 
let  her.' 

"  Oh,  how  strange  it  was  to  see  your  eyes  in  my  face  !  I 
kept  staring  at  her  until  I  almost  went  blind.  Mebby  I 
did  go  blind,  for  when  I  could  see  again  she  was  gone.  I've 
been  tryin'  to  think  how  foolish  I  am.  I  can't  have  my  girl 
do  jest  as  I  think ;  I  couldn't  do  jest  as  my  father  V 
mother  thought.  The  young  folks  grow  up  different,  some- 
how ;  'n'  us  older  ones  mustn't  think  they're  wrong  'cause 
they're  different.  Jest  because  I  have  such  a  feeling  about 
that  man,  don't  make  it  that  he's  wicked.  'N'  dreams  ain't 
anything,  anyway." 

So  mother  talked,  and  I  stood  beside  her,  for  she  had 
risen.  Perhaps  I  had  begun  to  have  a  little  different  feel- 
ing about  mother  from  what  I  used  to  have.  I  could  see 
now  that  she  was  a  "dreamer  of  dreams,"  that  she  was 
full  of  superstition;  that  she  believed  in  "signs";  that  her 
wide,  sensitive  eyes  saw  things  that  I  could  never  see. 
None  the  less  I  loved  and  reverenced  her;  and  I  knew  that 
there  was  something  in  my  own  nature  that  answered  to 
hers,  though  the  practical  mingled  in  me  with  the  visionary. 

When  mother  became  silent  I  began  to  reassure  her.  I 
said  that  I  shrank  from  Mr.  Maverick,  and  that  I  did  not 
believe  in  his  integrity.  I  remember  how  the  robins  flew 
about  us  as  we  stood  there,  and  one  hung,  and  fluttered, 
and  scolded  without  cessation.  We  were  near  his  nest  in 
the  branches  above  us.     Mother  stood  gazing  at  me.     She 


CHANGE 


279 


was  holding  my  hands  closely.  When  I  had  finished  speak- 
ing, she  said,  slowly  : 

"  But  the  other  one  ?     Miny,  you  love  that  other  one  ?" 

I  opened  my  lips  to  say,  "I  am  his  wife,"  but  before  I 
spoke  we  heard  a  shrill  scream  from  the  direction  of  the 
river  path.  I  recognized  the  voice,  and  I  exclaimed,  indig- 
nantly : 

';  What  is  Myra  Foster  shrieking  about  now  ?" 

Then  Myra  herself  came  running  up  the  acclivity  ;  she 
was  rushing  on  towards  the  house,  when  she  saw  us  and 
changed  her  course. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  seen  a  mouse,"  I  was  saying  to  myself. 

KOh,  come  quick!"  she  cried,  breathlessly;  "Uncle  Lem 
--he's  got  a  fit  !     Down  here — on  the  path  !" 

We  both  started  to  run,  but  I  reached  the  place  long  be- 
fore mother,  who  seemed  to  be  held  back  as  if  her  feet  were 
chained  together.  There  lay  father,  face  down  on  the 
ground.  His  arms  were  stretched  out.  I  bent  over  him 
and  tried  to  lift  him.  How  heavy  he  was  !  Myra  wouldn't 
help  ;  when  I  asked  her,  she  said  she  didn't  dare  to  touch 
him,  for  she  was  afraid  he  was  dead.  In  a  moment  I  had 
turned  him  over  so  that  he  lay  with  his  face  up  towards  the 
sky.    A  bluebird  circled  down  close  to  that  motionless  form. 

Myra  gave  another  shriek.  I  wanted  to  turn  and  strike 
her  for  making  such  a  sound.  Father's  face  was  dark,  al- 
most purple,  his  jaw  hanging  heavily,  his  eyes  partially 
open.  Mother  came  staggering  up  and  knelt  down  on 
the  ground. 

"  Lemuel !"  she  said  ;   "  Lemuel !" 

I  turned  to  Myra.  "  Will  you  take  the  horse  and  ride 
for  the  doctor  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  !   I  can't !   I'm  so  frightened  !" 

"  I'll  go,  then,"  I  said.     I  bent  over  mother.     She  did  not 


250  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

seem  to  notice  me.  I  told  her  that  I  was  going  to  ride  to 
the  village  for  Dr.  Shores.  She  made  no  response,  and  I 
left  her  crouching  over  that  senseless  form.  As  for  my- 
self, just  at  that  time  I  seemed  to  have  no  feeling,  save  the 
feeling  of  hurry  to  the  village. 

But  the  doctor  could  do  nothing.  Father  must  have 
been  dead  when  Myra  had  left  him.  She  said  she  had  met 
him  on  the  path  and  he  had  called  out,  "  Hullo,  Myra!"  and 
the  next  instant  had  fallen  as  we  had  found  him.  Apo- 
plexy, the  doctor  called  it. 

When  the  funeral  was  over  mother  and  I  began  life  by 
ourselves.  Aunt  Lowizy  came  and  stayed  a  week  with  us, 
but  she  had  to  go  back  to  Ryle,  for  grandmother  needed 
her.  So  we  were  alone,  Lotus  being  our  only  companion. 
Bidwell  was  very  kind  ;  everybody  was  kind.  It  was  Bid- 
well  who  milked  the  cows  and  did  all  the  "  chores,"  for 
chores  must  be  done,  whether  people  live  or  die. 

In  the  second  week  after  the  funeral  I  proposed  that  we 
hire  a  boy;  I  thought  I  could  do  a  great  deal  of  work  my- 
self, and  with  a  boy  to  help  us  we  might  get  along  until 
something  permanent  could  be  arranged.  Instead  of  reply- 
ing, mother  rose  from  her  chair  and  went  to  the  old  desk 
that  always  stood  at  the  end  of  the  long  kitchen.  She  un- 
locked it,  then  she  stood  a  moment  looking  at  the  key 
which  she  had  withdrawn  from  its  place. 

"  It  was  in  his  pocket,"  she  said  ;  "he  has  carried  it  for 
'bout  a  year,  V  kept  the  desk  locked.  I  feel  wicked  look- 
in'  'mong  his  papers  that  he  kep'  so  close.  He  never  used 
to  keep  um  so.  Wilhelminy,"  turning  tremulously  towards 
me,  "I  think  we're  poor — I  think  we  'ain't  got  a  cent." 

I  rose  and  flung  open  the  desk.  I  sat  down  before  it,  de- 
termined to  know  what  could  be  known.  Mother  drew  a 
chair  close  to  me  and  watched  me  as  I  took  out  paper  after 


CHANGE  28l 

paper  and  examined  everything.  I  can  tell  in  a  very  few 
words  what  I  learned.  We  didn't  own  anything.  The 
farm  and  everything  on  it  belonged  to  Bidwell  Blake. 
Father  had  lost  all  he  had  ever  owned  of  money  and 
horses  and  land  in  a  stock  company  he  had  joined  —  a 
company  formed  to  carry  on  a  large  horse-breeding  farm 
in  Kentucky.  And,  in  spite  of  my  resolve  not  to  believe, 
I  yet  had  to  believe  that  father  had  not  been  honest.  I 
was  sure  now  that  even  when  he  sold  horses  he  had  not 
been  honest,  and  the  neighbors  knew  it  —  oh  yes,  the 
neighbors  knew  it,  of  course.  But  I  hoped  that  mother 
might  be  kept  ignorant.  But  even  as  I  hoped  I  recalled 
her  face  as  I  had  seen  it  many  times  since  I  was  old  enough 
to  remember  —  her  face  when  she  had  been  listening  to 
father.  Yes,  she  had  always  known  ■  but  she  had  loved 
him  ;  I  was  quite  sure  she  had  loved  him  ;  and  it  is  a  terri- 
ble thing  to  give  affection  to  a  man  or  woman  whom  you 
cannot  respect. 

I  stole  a  look  at  mother  now  as  she  sat  close  to  my 
chair.  Since  father's  death  she  had  looked  like  an  old 
woman.  We  had  both  tried  to  be  calm.  As  for  me,  I 
seemed  to  be  grieving  for  the  father  of  long  ago — the  jolly, 
kind-hearted  man  who  had  seemed  to  love  me.  Within  the 
last  few  days  that  man  had  come  very  near  to  me,  and  I 
knew  that  I  should  forget  his  later  self. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

Mother  put  this  question  a  long  time  after  I  had  told 
her  that  we  had  nothing  in  the  world.  I  rose ;  I  could  not 
sit  still.  I  was  thinking  of  Vane.  He  would  take  care  of 
us.  He  had  sent  two  money  drafts  since  he  had  gone,  but 
I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  use  them.  They  lay  now 
in  my  little  desk,  the  desk  father  had  given  me  on  my  four- 
teenth birthday.     I   shrank  from  touching  Vane's  money 


282  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

until  he  came  back  and  the  marriage  was  known.  It  was 
wrong;  I  had  done  a  wrong  thing  when  I  consented  to  a 
marriage,  as  I  had  done.  Yes,  Vane  would  take  care  of  us ; 
but  not  until  he  came  back.  Meanwhile  something  must 
be  done. 

"  I  must  think,"  I  said.  I  walked  into  the  yard,  Lotus 
at  my  heels. 

On  the  bench  by  the  shed  door  was  lying  the  folded 
newspaper  that  I  had  taken  out  to  read  but  this  morning. 
It  was  a  New  York  daily  that  Bidwell  had  left.  It  was  four 
days  old  now.  Without  thinking  of  it  or  caring  to  look  at 
it,  I  yet  unfolded  it  and  absently  ran  my  eyes  down  its  col- 
umns. It  was  some  moments  before  my  mind  responded 
to  my  eyes.  When  it  did  respond  I  found  myself  reading 
this  paragraph  : 

"  Country  board  wanted  for  the  summer  by  an  invalid 
lady ;  a  quiet  place,  with  good  air;  absolutely  a  quiet  place. 
Address ." 

Sometimes  one  makes  a  decision  at  once.  I  did  this 
now.  I  read  the  advertisement  twice.  The  address  was 
a  post-office  box  in  Worcester,  Mass.  With  the  paper  in 
my  hand  I  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen,  where  mother  still 
sat  by  the  old  desk. 

"  Here  is  a  chance  to  earn  money  through  the  summer," 
I  said ;  "  and  then  we  can  make  other  plans.  We  will  hire 
the  house  of  Bidwell  for  six  months.  After  that,  perhaps, 
I  can  teach/' 

I  spoke  with  more  hopefulness  than  I  felt.  It  devolved 
upon  me  to  take  up  the  burden  of  care,  and  I  would  en- 
deavor to  do  it  cheerfully.  Meanwhile  I  tried  not  to  think 
of  Vane.  I  wondered  if  any  other  girl  was  ever  in  just 
such  a  position.  The  more  I  thought  of  telling  mother,  the 
more  I  shrank  from  knowing  that  she  would  blame  Vane 


CHANGE  283 

for  what  he  had  done,  and  he  was  blameworthy,  but  so 
was  I.  Mother  fell  in  with  my  proposition,  but  only  dully 
and  mechanically.  She  said  there  would  be  many  replies 
to  that  advertisement,  and  that  it  was  probable  that  the 
lady  had  already  engaged  board,  there  had  been  so  much 
time.    She  hoped  I  wouldn't  "build  on  it." 

Nevertheless  I  did  "  build  on  it."  I  couldn't  help  doing 
so.  I  wrote  my  note,  and  then  I  saddled  the  horse  and 
galloped  off  with  it.  I  was  in  a  feverish  haste  to  earn 
money.  And  deep  in  my  heart  I  still  hoped  some  time 
to  be  able  to  repay  Miss  Runciman  every  penny  that  she 
had  spent  upon  me.  I  tried  not  to  think  of  Miss  Runciman, 
for  the  thought  of  her  galled  me  so. 

I  mailed  my  note,  and  then  I  had  to  wait  as  patiently 
as  I  could,  which  was  not  patiently  at  all.  On  the  third 
day  I  took  from  the  office  an  envelope  with  a  compact 
superscription  upon  it. 

"  'Tain't  your  usual  one,"  said  the  postmaster,  with  a  sig- 
nificant smile,  which  I  resented.  I  would  not  break  the 
envelope  until  I  had  ridden  out  of  the  village.  Then,  sit- 
ting in  the  saddle,  I  found  that  the  writing  within  the  wrap- 
per was  very  different  from  that  on  the  outside,  and  I  knew 
the  dashing  characters  well — it  was  Miss  Runciman's  hand 
that  had  drawn  them.  My  heart  jumped  and  my  fingers 
trembled.     Here  is  what  she  wrote  : 

"  My  dear  Billy, —  Do  you  think  it  is  fate,  or  God,  which  made 
you  answer  my  advertisement  ?  Let  us  call  it  God,  for  I  suppose  there 
is  a  God,  and  if  there  be  one  He  would  be  likely  to  meddle  in  the 
affairs  of  His  world  sometimes,  wouldn't  He  ? 

"  The  moment  I  saw  your  envelope  I  said  to  myself,  'Could  this 
have  come  from  Billy?'  I  don't  know  why,  I'm  sure,  that  I  should 
be  so  glad  to  think  I  may  go  to  your  home  for  the  summer.  For  you 
must  let  me  come — you  must.     Perhaps  you  hate  me.     But  you  must 


284  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

remember  how  you  are  commanded  to  use  those  who  have  wronged 
you.  I'm  in  wretched  health.  I  talk  as  if  I  should  get  well  ;  but  I 
shall  not.  I'm  going  to  die  soon — soon.  And  people  who  are  going 
to  die  soon  want  to  be  forgiven,  don't  they  ?  Let  me  come  imme- 
diately. I  will  make  as  little  trouble  as  I  may.  I  shall  not  be  alone  ; 
but  you  must  take  us  both.  Don't  wait  to  write  ;  telegraph — telegraph 
as  soon  as  you  can  ride  over  to  that  little  station  where  the  wire  stops. 
Go  now  and  send  me  these  words,  '  Come  quickly.' 

"  Leonora  Runciman." 


My  hand,  with  the  letter  in  it,  dropped  down  on  the 
pommel.  Can  you  explain  why  the  bitterness  that  had 
been  in  my  heart  towards  this  woman  suddenly  fell  away 
from  me  ?  Surely  it  was  not  merely  because  she  was  ill. 
Was  it  because  she  was  just  Leonora  Runciman  ?  There 
was  a  dimness  in  my  eyes  as  I  looked  down  at  the  paper. 
She  was  not  alone — then  Bashy  was  with  her.  I  was  sorry 
for  that.  Bathsheba's  sharp  teeth,  and  the  especial,  carniv- 
orous look  of  biting  they  had,  had  made  an  impression  on 
me  which  had  never  been  effaced,  and  yet  the  girl  had 
been  kind  in  her  way,  and  she  was  Vane's  sister.  Some- 
how she  never  seemed  like  Vane's  sister. 

I  thrust  the  note  into  my  jacket-pocket,  I  gathered  up  the 
bridle  rein  and  cantered  on  towards  the  station  just  as  Miss 
Runciman  had  bidden  me,  and  I  sent  the  precise  words  to 
her  that  she  had  dictated — "Come  quickly."  Then  I  rode 
homewards  as  fast  as  I  could,  and  my  horse's  neck  and  sides 
were  wet  when  I  dismounted  in  the  barn. 

I  longed  to  rush  into  the  house  to  mother,  but  first  I  made 
myself  unsaddle  and  rub  down  my  steed  as  well  as  I  could. 
There  is  often  something  comforting  and  soothing  in  con- 
tact with  some  animals,  and  when  I  was  ready  to  meet 
mother,  though  I  was  red  and  perspiring  from  my  work,  I 
was  quite   calm.     I  wras  prepared  for  opposition,  and  re- 


CHANGE  285 

solved  to  overcome  it.  Mother  looked  startled  and  alarmed 
when  I  read  the  note.  She  shrank  away  and  put  out  her 
hands  as  if  to  ward  off  something;  but  when  I  read  again 
those  words  about  the  writer's  illness  mother's  face  changed 
to  pity. 

"  Poor  thing  !"  she  exclaimed.     "  Let  her  come.     It's  not 
for  us  to  judge." 

Of  course  it  was  Bidwell's  horse  I  kept  and  used.  He 
had  tried  to  make  me  believe  that  I  should  be  doing  him  a 
favor  if  I  would  keep  it  until  the  fall,  and  he  was  so  earnest 
about  it  that  I  consented.  Have  I  set  down  here  how  kind 
and  thoughtful  Bid  was  ?  I  think  he  did  not  often  come  to 
see  Myra  at  Miss  Cobb's  without  walking  up  the  river  path 
to  ask  if  he  could  do  anything  for  us.  It  was  on  one  of 
those  visits  that  I  arranged  with  him  concerning  the  rent ; 
I  would  go  right  on  paying  what  father  had  agreed  to  pay ; 
only,  just  now  he  must  wait,  I  must  earn  the  money ;  and 
I  would  keep  the  hens,  and  one  cow;  these  mother  and  I 
could  care  for.  Bidwell  had  the  appearance  of  dealing  with 
me  as  if  I  were  another  young  man,  and  he  could  never  know 
how  I  thanked  him  for  that. 

After  I  had  sent  the  telegram  mother  and  I  fell  to  house- 
cleaning  like  mad.  We  cleaned  the  south  front  room  and 
the  bedroom  adjoining.  I  was  sore  and  lame  every  time  I 
waked  in  the  night,  but  I  did  not  care  for  any  physical  ills  ; 
or  I  thought  I  did  not. 

The  next  afternoon  it  was  I  who  seemed  calm  and  mother 
who  was,  as  she  said,  "  as  flustered  as  she  could  be."  A  tel- 
egram received  in  the  morning  informed  us  that  our  boarders 
would  arrive  on  the  6:30  p.m.  train.     Could  I  meet  them  ? 

I  had  just  led  the  horse,  harnessed,  to  the  carry-all  that 
had  once  been  father's,  and  that  was  now  Bidwell's,  into 
the  yard.     Mother  was  at  the  door,  and  came  out  to  say 


286  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

good-bye,  as  if  I  were  going  on  a  journey.  Her  eyes  looked 
more  timid  and  sensitive  than  usual. 

"  I  do  hope  we've  done  right,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady 
voice ;  "  but  now  the  time  has  really  come,  I  almost  wish 
we'd  said  no.     You  know,  I  don't  believe  in  her,  Billy." 

"  It  isn't  necessary,"  I  answered,  briskly.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  her,  either." 

So  I  drove  off.  At  the  first  corner  I  met  Bidwell  with 
Myra  on  the  front  seat  of  his  carriage,  and  Rachel  Cobb 
on  the  back  seat.  Rachel  had  on  her  glasses  and  peered 
sharply  at  me.  Bidwell  pulled  in  his  brown  horses,  and 
called  out,  cheerily : 

"  So  you've  got  started,  eh  ?  I'm  jest  takin'  Rachel  out 
a  piece.  She's  be'n  shut  up  so  long  I  thought  'twould  do 
her  good." 

Then  he  clucked  to  his  horses,  Myra  "snuggled"  yet 
closer  to  him,  and  I  was  left  to  continue  my  way. 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  kind  of  girl  men  like,"  I  said,  aloud; 
and  I  added  that  I  wished  she  was  in  any  measure  worthy 
of  Bid ;  Bid  was  such  a  good  fellow !  Having  thus  ex- 
pressed myself,  I  forgot  them.  I  had  plenty  of  subjects  to 
think  of  besides  Myra  Foster  and  her  admirers. 

I  reached  the  station  half  an  hour  before  train  time  in  my 
fear  lest  I  should  be  late.  I  carefully  hitched  the  horse, 
and  then  I  walked  up  and  down  on  the  platform.  The 
agent  occasionally  came  out  and  looked  at  me.  Once  he 
said  he  "  s'posed "  I  was  Lemuel  Armstrong's  daughter. 
Having  informed  him  that  I  was,  he  went  back  and  prob- 
ably meditated  on  that  fact.  Presently  he  returned  and 
again  gazed  at  me  intently  a  moment  before  he  remarked 
that  he  guessed  I  must  be  the  one  that  had  been  studyin' 
to  be  a  great  singer  ;  was  I  ? 

"Yes." 


CHANGE  287 

He  stepped  back  as  if  the  better  to  contemplate  such  a 
being. 

"  Well,  be  ye  a  great  singer?" 

"No,  I'm  not." 

He  walked  to  the  utmost  edge  of  the  platform  and  squint- 
ed reflectively  along  the  rails.  Without  removing  his  eyes 
from  their  occupation,  he  said  : 

"  I  guess  it  didn't  pay,  did  it  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

This  conversation  consumed  a  few  moments  of  the  half- 
hour,  but  the  time  that  still  remained  was  heavy.  Even 
the  knowledge  that  the  fact  that  I  had  studied  to  be  a 
great  singer,  and  failed,  was  making  me  an  object  of  inter- 
est, did  not  allay  the  excitement  with  which  I  waited  for 
the  train. 

The  shadows  cast  by  the  hills  to  the  west  were  long  and 
cool.  Above  them  the  summer  sun  was  still  brilliantly 
shining;  but  here  the  day  seemed  nearer  an  end,  and  the 
birds  were  flying  about,  making  their  soft  little  calls  to  each 
other.  A  great  peace  appeared  to  have  descended  upon 
the  world,  but,  try  as  I  would,  I  could  not  partake  of  that 
peace.  Sometimes  nature  is  so  alien,  so  unsympathetic. 
A  certain  vague,  distant  sound,  or  rather  vibration,  be- 
came perceptible.  The  agent,  who  had  come  out  again, 
now  pulled  his  watch  from  some  very  deep  receptacle,  and 
remarked,  as  he  examined  it : 

"  I  guess  she's  goin'  to  be  right  on  the  tick." 

I  stood  up  straight.  Why  should  my  pulses  beat  so  be- 
cause Miss  Runciman  was  coming?  There  she  was,  de- 
scending the  steps  —  pale,  thin,  with  hair  more  gray,  with 
no  suggestion  now  of  physical  power,  and  yet  still  a  notable 
woman.  I  stepped  quickly  forward.  She  put  a  hand  on 
each  shoulder,  and  looked  at  me. 


288  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  This  is  good  of  you,  Billy,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  Now 
I  can  die  in  peace  up  here  in  the  country." 

She  kissed  me,  and  I  did  not  shrink.  I  thought  that  I 
ought  to  shrink.  I  was  indefinitely  aware  that  there  was  a 
figure  behind.    Where  was  Bashy?    Miss  Runciman  turned. 

"Billy,"  she  said,  "here's  some  one  you  have  seen — and 
you  were  kind  to  him,  too  ;  but  then  you're  a  kind  little 
girl.     Robert—" 

I  did  not  hear  what  else  she  said,  for  the  man  who  stepped 
forward,  laden  with  wraps  and  satchels,  was  Mr.  Robert 
Dreer,  the  man  who  had  come  to  that  house  where  I  stud- 
ied last  winter.  He  was  now  remarkably  well  dressed,  and 
his  face  was  happy,  in  spite  of  its  expression  of  anxiety. 

"  Billy,"  said  Miss  Runciman,  as  if  she  were  presenting 
an  ordinary  acquaintance,  "  this  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Dreer. 
Is  that  your  carriage  ?  Do  you  know,  Tin  to  have  the  gray 
colt  sent  up  here  ?  I  pretend  that  I'm  going  to  ride  him, 
but  I  never  shall ;  no,  I  never  shall." 

She  walked  slowly  forward  to  the  carriage.  Mr.  Dreer 
hastened  after  her,  piling  his  wraps  as  well  as  he  could 
upon  one  arm  so  that  he  might  offer  the  other  arm  to  his 
wife.     But  she  turned  to  me  with  a  smile  : 

"  You  help  me,  Billy."  She  took  my  arm,  and  Mr.  Dreer 
walked  on  to  put  his  shawls  and  bags  in  the  carry-all. 


XVII 
THE    WHOLE    STORY 

I  did  not  ask  a  question.  I  was  too  bewildered  to  do  so, 
even  if  I  had  thought  it  courteous.  In  that  first  moment 
I  was  not  even  putting  inquiries  to  myself.  Mr.  Dreer 
turned  towards  us  as  we  came  forward.  Miss  Runciman 
made  a  movement  to  signify  that  she  would  not  be  put  into 
the  carriage  directly.  She  leaned  both  hands  on  the  shaft 
and  looked  above  the  horse  into  the  distance.  Presently 
she  said,  not  addressing  any  one  : 

•'  I  don't  know  why  God  made  such  a  beautiful  world 
just  for  us  to  die  in." 

"  But  we  live  in  it  first,"  I  responded,  with  some  eager- 
ness.    She  smiled. 

"  You  say  that  because  you  are  living ;  but  I  am  dying. 
Robert" — to  Mr.  Dreer,  who  stood  close  beside  her — "help 
me  in.     I'm  tired."' 

I  watched  the  man  as  he  obeyed.     The  tenderness  in  his 

worn  face  was  indescribable.     I  recalled  the  time  when  he 

had  gazed  at  Miss  Runciman's  portrait  in  the  low-ceiled 

room  at  YYallingford.     She  had  been  his  wife  then  ;  I  felt 

sure  of  that.     Let  me  say  here  that  I  am  going  to  call  her 

Miss  Runciman  to  the  end  of  these  chronicles,  for  it  was 

bv  that  name  that  I  always  thought  of  her,  by  that  name 

I  remember  her  now. 

There  was  hardly  a  word  spoken  during  the  drive  home. 
19 


290  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

The  two  new-comers  sat  in  the  back  of  the  carriage,  with 
the  woman  leaning  her  head  on  her  companion's, shoulder, 
her  eyes  closed  nearly  all  the  time,  Mr.  Dreer  holding 
her  carefully,  as  if  he  would  shield  her  from  everything. 
As  mother  came  out  into  the  yard  to  meet  us  the  moon 
was  shining  over  the  tops  of  the  poplars  that  grew  at  the 
end  of  the  house ;  it  shone  directly  upon  Miss  Runciman's 
face,  and  when  mother  looked  at  her  I  knew  that  there  was 
nothing  but  pity  in  her  heart. 

After  a  few  days  the  invalid  seemed  so  much  better  that, 
instead  of  sitting  or  lying  almost  all  the  day  on  the  piazza, 
she  would  walk  about  the  yard,  always  on  her  husband's 
arm,  and  she  began  to  say  things  that  reminded  me  of  her 
old  self.  This  improvement  continued  until  I,  for  one, 
began  to  think  she  might  get  well,  or  at  least  much  better, 
and  she  did  not  cough  nearly  so  much.  The  terms  which 
she  had  set  for  board  seemed  to  me  munificent,  but  she 
insisted  that  it  was  worth  even  more  to  have  a  sick  woman 
like  her  about  the  house,  and  she  might  die  on  our  hands 
at  any  time.  At  this  she  smiled,  and  Mr.  Dreer,  as  he  stood 
behind  her  couch,  tried  to  repress  a  shudder. 

Later  I  often  watched  Mr.  Dreer,  thinking  to  myself  that 
he  must  have  loved  much  to  be  able  to  forgive  so  much, 
for  I  felt  sure  there  had  been  need  of  forgiveness  on  hisv 
part.  Perhaps  there  was  some  spaniel-like  quality  in  his 
nature.  He  did  not  notice  me,  save  in  a  merely  civil  way. 
But  once  he  took  occasion  to  thank  me  earnestly  for  what 
he  said  I  had  done  for  him  at  the  Holloway  House. 

It  was  at  this  interview  that  I  proposed  to  Miss  Runci- 
man  to  allow  her  board  to  cancel  the  debt  I  must  owe  her. 
I  had  resolved  to  say  this,  though  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
do  so.  She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  that  she  might  the 
better  look  at  me. 


THE    WHOLE    STORY 


291 


••  What  debt  ?"  she  asked. 

,;  For  singing  lessons,  and — and — "     Here  I  stopped. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said. 

I  approached  the  lounge. 

li  Sit  down  on  this  footstool." 

I  obeyed. 

She  was  silent  for  a  time.  She  put  her  hand  on  my 
head. 

;'  I  told  you  that  when  you  are  going  to  die  soon  you 
want  to  be  forgiven.  You  owe  me  nothing  but  forgiveness. 
It  was  a  cruel  thing  to  take  you  and  leave  you  as  I  did.  I 
suppose  I  have  done  many  cruel  things  in  my  life.  But 
they  never  troubled  me ;  and  I'm  not  much  troubled  by 
them  now.  That's  a  curious  fact,  isn't  it?  Xow,  there's 
Robert — I  suppose  he  loves  me — he  really  loves  me.  Bill}-, 
if  you'll  close  that  door  leading  into  the  house  I'll  talk  to 
you  a  little.  I  feel  like  talking  about  myself.  But  if  Miss 
Cobb  should  come  over,  and  should  happen  to  hear  me,  I 
should  be  sorry.  Miss  Cobb  isn't  a  woman  in  whom  I 
would  confide.  I  really  am  strong  to-day — quite  like  my- 
self. Odd,  isn't  it?  Robert  thinks  I  may  get  well,  but  he 
is  wrong — wrong.  Come  back  here  to  the  footstool.  You 
see,  after  all,  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  you  sing  better  than  I 
could  sing.  I  couldn't  bear,  when  the  time  really  came,  to 
have  people  say  'that  girl  some  day  will  far  outshine  Miss 
Runciman.'     They  did  say  that.     Then  I  hated  vou.     And 

J  J  J 

Maverick  was  taken  with  you.  I  don't  wonder,  of  course. 
There's  a  singular  simplicity  in  your  character  and  manner 
which  is  like  a  drink  from  a  cold  mountain  spring  on  a  hot 
day.  Speaking  of  drinking,  I  was  always  afraid  you  would 
begin  to  take  wine.  It  seemed  so  against  your  whole  self 
— odd  notion,  wasn't  it?" 

Here  the  speaker  paused.     She  was  silent  for  so  long  a 


292  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON  • 

time  that  I  glanced  up  at  her.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  and 
from  beneath  the  lids  two  tears  had  started.  Impulsively 
I  leaned  forward  and  kissed  those  drooped  lids.  Even  as 
I  did  so  I  knew  that  the  reasonable  feeling  for  me  to  have 
was  the  feeling  of  repulsion  towards  this  woman.  But, 
thank  God,  we  are  not  always  reasonable. 

"  That's  lovely  of  you,"  she  murmured. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  added,  with  animation,  "  And 
you  don't  run  any  risk  in  regard  to  me  now,  for  I  shall  not 
get  well  and  do  any  more  unprincipled  things.  And  Rob- 
ert is  safe  too.  Poor  fellow  !  I'm  glad  he's  safe.  He  has 
suffered  horribly  through  me.  But  having  loved  me,  he 
couldn't  stop  loving  me.  That  was  strange,  too.  Billy, 
will  you  be  bored  if  I  talk  about  myself  ?  I  am  in  the 
mood  to  do  that.  It  is  as  if  I  were  standing  off  and  con- 
templating my  own  individuality.  And  you  are  such  a 
sympathetic,  intense  kind  of  a  listener.     Shall  I  bore  you  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  no  !"  I  answered. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  go  on,  then.  I  married  Robert  when  I 
was  nineteen.  I  thought  love  was  a  fine  thing.  I  suppose 
it  is ;  people  seem  to  believe  in  it.  But  I  became  weary  of 
it.  Robert  didn't  weary,  however  ;  he  continued  to  be  de- 
voted. He  isn't  like  a  man  in  that  respect — nor  like  a  wom- 
an, either ;  perhaps  like  some  dogs,  and  a  very  few  human 
beings.  I  knew  that  I  could  sing  before  I  married,  but  it 
was  not  until  later  that  I  learned  that  I  might  do  something 
with  my  voice.  We  were  poor ;  I  was  a  country  girl,  like 
you,  Billy,  and  Robert  had  a  good  opening  in  business  with 
Mr.  Hollander.     I  see  you  remember  that  name. 

"  At  a  concert  at  which  I  sang  a  professional  in  singing 
heard  me.  He  sought  me  out  and  prophesied  a  great  future 
if  I  would  study  abroad.  I  was  set  on  fire  by  his  words.  I 
told  my  husband  that  I  must  cultivate  my  voice  ;   but  we 


THE    WHOLE    STORY 


were  poor  then  ;  he  wanted  me  to  wait.  How  could  I  wait  ? 
The  Hollanders  were  very  kind  to  us  both.  But  I'm  sure 
that  Mrs.  Hollander  never  liked  me.  Her  husband  was  too 
fond  of  leaning  on  the  piano  and  staring  at  me  when  I  sang. 
And  I  confess  that  I  used  to  glance  at  him  occasionally. 
Why  not?  And  Mrs.  Hollander  sometimes  saw  me  do  it. 
It  was  about  this  time  that  Robert  became  his  employer's 
confidential  clerk.  He  knew  as  much  about  the  business 
as  Mr.  Hollander  himself  knew.  I  was  wild  for  money 
then.  I  was  discontented  and  unhappy.  I  was  constantly 
telling  my  husband  that  he  must  get  money  in  some  way. 
Now.  you  must  know  that  Robert  isn't  a  strong  man  in 
some  respects,  and  that  he  is  wonderfully  strong  in  other 
ways.  That's  the  way  with  us  all,  I  fancy,  only  in  not  so 
marked  a  degree. 

';  I'm  to  blame  for  it  all ;  I  can  see  that  plainly  enough. 
You  don't  care  for  the  particulars  of  the  affair.  Robert, 
eager  to  get  money  for  me,  when  he  saw  an  opportunity, 
acted.  You  don't  remember  reading  in  the  papers  about 
the  Hollander  frauds.  You  were  too  young.  Rachel  Cobb 
showed  you  a  few  paragraphs.  The  transaction  involved 
the  firm.  Robert's  spoils  were  $20,000— not  large,  as  frauds 
go  in  these  days,  but  it  seemed  a  great  deal  to  me  then. 
And  he  put  the  whole  sum  into  my  hands  and  sent  me 
abroad.  Mind  you,  I  knew  it  was  a  fraud,  and  I  helped 
him  with  my  acuter  brain. 

"We  thought,  as  criminals  usually  think,  that  we  should 
not  be  found  out.  Everything  would  be  '  squared  up1  be- 
fore discovery.  It  was  a  '  great  deal.'  But  the  crash  came, 
nevertheless,  and  Hollander  was  disgraced  utterly,  as  well 
as  made  a  poor  man.  What  does  Robert  do  then  ?  He 
comes  forward  and  confesses  that  it  was  he  who  had  done 
this  thing,  he  who  was  guilty,  and  that  he  had  used  Hoi- 


294 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


lander's  name  to  float  the  thing.  People  talked  about  the 
affair  for  a  time ;  it  was  a  little  more  interesting  than  the 
ordinary  embezzlement,  and,  for  some  reason,  it  was  gen- 
erally believed  that  I  was  really  the  power  that  had  moved 
the  puppet  to  make  a  criminal  of  himself.  My  extrav- 
agance, this  thing  and  that,  were  dwelt  upon.  Mrs.  Hol- 
lander started  all  that.  Of  course,  the  woman  didn't  feel 
too  kindly  towards  me.  She  and  her  husband  had  to  move 
into  a  poor  part  of  the  city  and  take  boarders  for  a  living. 
They  didn't  have  even  $20,000.  You  may  be  sure  that  I 
arranged  so  that  I  needn't  lose  that.  I  was  smart.  I  was 
learning  to  sing.  Robert  was  sentenced  to  eleven  years' 
hard  labor.  They  pardoned  him  at  the  end  of  ten  years 
for  good  behavior. 

"  Meantime  I  had  become  famous.  I  took  my  maiden 
name,  but  some  ferret  of  a  newspaperman  published  a  few 
facts  in  the  case.  I  was  famous,  all  the  same,  and  the 
crowds  came  to  hear  me.  At  first  I  used  to  think  about 
Robert,  but  I  grew  to  think  less  and  less  about  him.  Why 
should  I  remember  him  ?  It  did  him  no  good.  It  must 
have  been  a  curious  remnant  of  sentiment  that  made  me  go 
to  that  old  house  in  Wallingford — that  made  me  take  you 
there  last  winter.  It  was  there  Robert  and  I  spent  the 
first  few  months  after  our  marriage ;  and  Robert  came  there 
from  prison.  Poor  fellow !  He  kept  right  on  loving  me 
all  the  time." 

Miss  Runciman,  who  had  been  sitting  up  on  the  lounge, 
now  laid  herself  back  on  the  pillows.  I  sat  perfectly  still. 
I  was  feeling  very  far  from  her.  I  was  wondering  if  there 
were  many  people  like  her  in  the  world.  And  did  those 
men  and  women  who  had  committed  crimes  have  any 
" realizing  sense"  of  what  they  had  done?  Did  the  capac- 
ity to  do  an  evil  deed  nullify  the  capacity  to  repent  of  it  ? 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  295 

Did  people  repent  just  from  pure  sorrow  for  their  actions, 
or  only  when  those  actions  brought  suffering  to  them  ? 
And  what  did  God — God,  who  really  knows  us — think  of 
us  ?  To  be  God's  child  is  to  be  loved  by  Him,  and  un- 
derstood by  Him — so  He  understands  why  we  do  a  bad  act. 

Mother  believes  that  God  looks  tenderly  upon  a  wicked 
child.  How  does  He  look  upon  a  woman  like  Leonora 
Runciman  ?  I  rose  from  my  place  on  the  footstool  by  the 
lounge.  I  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  piazza  and  leaned 
against  one  of  the  pillars. 

There  was  my  father.  He  had  cheated  people.  I  was 
convinced  that  it  was  his  practice  to  cheat  whenever  he 
could  do  so.  And  I  was  quite  sure  that  his  conscience 
never  troubled  him,  and  that  he  was  only  troubled  when  he 
did  not  succeed.  But  mother — she  was  upright — she  was 
a  person  of  integrity. 

"  Billy." 

It  was  Miss  Runciman  who  spoke.  I  went  back  to  the 
lounge.  The  pale,  attractive  face  was  towards  me,  and  the 
eyes  were  looking  earnestly  at  me. 

"  I  knew  you  would  feel  just  as  you  are  feeling,"  she 
said,  "but  I  had  a  strong  wish  to  tell  you.  That's  another 
marked  weakness  of  humanity — the  tendency  to  confess. 
Now,  why  should  I  have  told  you  this  ?  Such  telling  serves 
no  purpose  whatever.  I  simply  wished  you  to  know  about 
me.  My  inhibitive  power  ought  to  have  kept  me  silent. 
But  it  did  not.  I  have  risked  your  feeling,  thrust  away 
from  me  by  my  evil  deeds.  It's  a  strange  thing  that  I'm 
not  made  unhappy  by  the  thought  of  them.  I  ought  to  be 
unhappy." 

Here  she  coughed.  When  she  could  speak  she  said  :  "  I 
wish  you  would  sit  down  here  again."  I  resumed  my  place. 
She  put  out  her  hand  and  clasped  mine. 


296  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

"  It's  such  a  strong,  young  hand,"  she  said.  "  And  now 
I'm  going  to  talk  about  your  future.  You  are  going  to 
study  under  Marchesi.  Oh  yes  " — as  I  started  uncontrol- 
lably— "you  grow  pale  at  the  very  thought — and  no  won- 
der. I  have  made  my  will.  I  have  saved  some  money.  If 
I  don't  die,  you  have  the  money  all  the  same  —  $5000. 
That  will  be  enough  for  the  way  you  will  live.  I  propose 
that  you  and  your  mother  go  this  fall.  I  have  already  writ- 
ten to  Marchesi  concerning  you.  It  is  not  yet  time  for  a 
reply.  I  can  see  your  future  resplendent.  To  sing  —  to 
move  hearts — to  make  the  blood  leap— to  play  upon  the 
pulses — " 

Miss  Runciman  rose  to  a  sitting  position.  A  bright  red 
came  to  her  face.  She  began  to  cough  again.  After  a  time 
she  took  up  her  talk  once  more. 

"  I  am  so  grateful  that  you  didn't  become  entangled  with 
my  nephew,"  she  said. 

I  could  not  help  a  quick,  slight  movement.  I  could  not 
tell  whether  she  noticed  this  movement.     She  went  on  : 

"  Such  an  entanglement  would  most  likely  be  fatal  to 
your  future  as  a  singer.  Yes,  I'm  very  glad  that  such  a 
thing  did  not  happen.     Billy  !" — suddenly. 

Miss  Runciman  seized  my  arm  and  pulled  me  down  tow- 
ards her.  She  looked  alarmed ;  I  could  see  that,  even  in 
the  midst  of  my  own  confusion. 

"  You  know  I  warned  you  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Does  warning  ever  do  any  good  ?"  I  asked.  I  had,  on 
the  moment,  made  a  resolve.  I  withdrew  myself  somewhat 
and  tried  to  look  in  Miss  Runciman's  face  as  I  said  : 

"Vane  and  I  are  married." 

"  What !" 

But  I  did  not  think  of  repeating  my  words  ;  I  could  not 
have  spoken  again  immediately.     The  look  that  came  into 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  297 

the  countenance  before  me  had  a  very  strange  effect — it 
frightened  me  thoroughly.  But  why  should  Miss  Runci- 
man's  eyes  fill  with  horror  ?  She  stared  at  me  an  instant 
in  silence.  Then  she  roused  herself  and  looked  about  her 
as  if  in  search  of  some  one. 

"  Where  is  Robert  ?"  she  asked.     "  Find  Robert  for  me." 

Without  any  response  in  words,  I  turned  and  went  along 
the  yard  towards  the  path  that  led  to  the  river.  It  was  in 
this  direction  that  Mr.  Dreer  had  gone  for  a  walk.  He  was 
never  away  for  more  than  an  hour.  I  should  be  likely  to 
meet  him.  I  had  no  more  than  reached  the  bars  of  the 
fence  when  Miss  Runciman  called  me  quickly.  I  hurried 
back  to  her.  She  was  standing  now,  with  one  arm  clasped 
about  a  post  of  the  piazza.  She  looked  full  of  alert,  and  I 
might  almost  say  defensive,  life,  in  spite  of  her  pallor. 

"  Come  here — come  close,"  she  said,  in  an  eager  whisper. 
"  Before  you  call  Robert  tell  me  more.  Does  your  mother 
know  ?" 

"  I  have  never  told  any  one  until  this  moment,"  I  an- 
swered. I  also  was  on  the  defensive  now.  Was  she  going 
to  blame  Vane  ?     I  could  not  bear  that. 

"Did  Vane  wish  the  marriage  kept  secret?" 

"  He  did  not  say  so."  I  spoke  stiffly,  and  as  if  I  should 
resent  too  much  questioning.  "  Under  the  circumstances,  I 
thought  I  would  remain  silent." 

"  Even  to  your  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  even  to  my  mother."  Miss  Runciman  put  her 
hand  up  to  her  head  a  moment.  Then  she  asked,  peremp- 
torily : 

"  What  were  the  circumstances  ?" 

I  hesitated,  and  as  I  did  so  my  companion  said,  with  still 
more  command  in  her  manner  : 

"  The  date  ?     Tell  me  the  date  instantly." 


298  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  mentioned  the  day  of  the  month,  and,  instead  of  put- 
ting another  inquiry,  she  stepped  down  from  the  piazza  and 
walked  a  few  yards,  exclaiming  as  she  did  so  : 

"  I  must  find  Robert !" 

There  was  a  touching  anxiety  and  helplessness  in  her  ap- 
pearance ;  it  was  particularly  affecting  to  see  a  woman  like 
her  helpless  in  any  degree  :  I  felt  this  even  in  my  preoccu- 
pation.    I  hurried  forward. 

"  I  will  go,"  I  said,  shortly.  She  paused,  and  I  went  on 
towards  the  path. 

In  my  vague  alarm  there  was  much  indignation,  and  this 
latter  emotion  grew  as  the  moments  passed.  Why  should 
Miss  Runciman  appear  like  this,  even  though  my  marriage 
had  been,  in  a  measure,  clandestine  ?  I  began  to  run  along 
the  path.  It  was  a  very  irritating  thing  to  meet  Myra  Fos- 
ter coming  up  the  slope,  swinging  her  hat  in  her  hand. 

"  Mercy  sake !"  she  exclaimed.  "  There  ain't  nothin' 
happened,  has  there  ?" 

"  No — no,"1  trying  to  pass  her. 

"  I'm  so  glad.  I  was  comin'  up  to  ask  you  to  go  out 
to  Great  Medders  with  us  towards  night — Bid  V  I,  you 
know." 

"Thank  you  —  my  time  is  so  taken  up  —  excuse  me  — 
there's  Mr.  Dreer,"  and  I  dashed  on. 

It  was  really  strange  that  I  should  dislike  that  girl  so 
much.  And  what  could  Bidwell  Blake  see  in  her  ?  But 
father  also  had  liked  her.  Confusedly  I  was  thinking  thus 
as  I  hastened  towards  Mr.  Dreer.  As  soon  as  he  saw  me 
he  came  quickly  to  me,  his  ever-present  anxiety  intensified. 
•I  hastened  to  give  his  wife's  message,  and  to  assure  him 
that  she  was  no  worse.  Having  done  this,  I  lingered.  I 
did  not  care  to  return  immediately.  I  walked  down  to  the 
hackmatack-trees,  where  I  had   strolled  and  sat  so  many 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  299 

times  with  Bathsheba  and  her  brother.  There  was  the  spot 
where  the  big;  carriage  had  stood. 

I  went  back  and  leaned  on  the  bar  of  the  fence  as  I  had 
done  when  Vane  had  sung  his  little  encore  song  to  me. 
My  heart  was  aching.  My  dry,  hot  eyes  turned  vaguely 
this  way  and  that.  I  was  continually  asking  myself  why 
Miss  Runciman  had  looked  so  horrified — and  why  had  she 
so  wished  to  know  the  date  of  my  marriage.  It  was  that 
fact  alone  which  concerned  her. 

I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  and  drew  out  Vane's  letter. 
It  was  my  habit  to  keep  one  letter  with  me  until  another 
one  came.  He  wrote  constantly,  and  with  the  ardor  and 
abandon  of  a  lover  who  loves  absorbingly,  and  without  cau- 
tion. It  has  not  seemed  necessary  to  mention  these  let- 
ters ;  but  I  read  them  unceasingly,  it  seems  to  me  now  as  I 
look  back  ;  and  I  thought  of  the  writer  from  morning  till 
night,  and  dreamed  of  him  while  I  slept.  Those  letters,  and 
the  memory  of  their  writer,  filled  the  summer  with  a  glow 
and  a  subtle  and  delightful  excitement  that  colored  every- 
thing. Xo  matter  of  what  I  was  thinking,  I  was  thinking 
also  of  Vane.  I  was  enveloped  in  something  which  made 
it  impossible  for  any  grief  or  pleasure,  not  connected  with 
this  one  subject,  to  touch  me  deeply. 

Perhaps  this  confession  reveals  a  very  selfish  person  ;  it 
is  the  truth,  however.  But,  notwithstanding  this  truth,  I 
never  ceased  regretting  that  marriage.  Still  my  thoughts  of 
the  ceremony  grew  more  and  more  indefinite  and  shadowy. 
Now,  since  Miss  Runciman's  question,  these  memories 
started  out  into  a  brightly  defined  distinctness  again,  and 
were  not  like  the  remembrance  of  a  dream.  And  the  in- 
comprehensible and  contradictory  gladness  in  that  I  was 
Vane's  wife  was  stronger  than  ever.  Fortunately  for  me,  I 
did  not  try  to  understand  these  things.     The  human  heart, 


300  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

which  is  desperately  wicked,  is  also  quite  as  mysterious. 
What  else  is  capable  of  two  distinctly  contrary  emotions  at 
the  same  time  ? 

When  I  returned  an  hour  later  Miss  Runciman  was  lying 
on  the  lounge  on  the  piazza.  She  did  not  open  her  eyes  as 
I  came  softly  forward.  So  I  passed  on  into  the  house  and 
to  the  kitchen,  where  mother  was  sitting.  When  I  entered 
the  room  she  asked  quickly  why  Mr.  Dreer  had  gone  off 
in  such  a  hurry,  and  why  he  had  gone  to  Chilton.  I  could 
answer  neither  of  these  inquiries.  She  informed  me  that 
Mr.  Dreer  had  saddled  the  gray  colt,  which  now  sub- 
mitted to  be  ridden  by  others  besides  its  mistress,  and 
that  he  had  galloped  off  as  soon  as  he  could  go. 

As  it  was  a  thirty-mile  ride  to  Chilton,  Mr.  Dreer  could 
hardly  return  until  the  next  day.  Of  course,  I  would  not 
ask  any  questions.  Miss  Runciman,  the  next  morning,  did 
not  leave  her  room  until  nearly  noon.  When  she  did  ap- 
pear she  showed  plainly  that  she  had  not  slept ;  and  she 
could  not  eat.  She  drank  a  glass  of  milk  and  then  estab- 
lished herself  on  the  piazza  again,  asking  if  I  could  sit  be- 
side her.  I  was  expecting  her  to  refer  to  the  subject  which 
had  been  of  such  interest  to  her  the  day  before.  Finally 
she  said : 

"  Poor  Billy !" 

I  resented  this  exclamation,  and  showed  that  I  did  so. 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  she  murmured. 

Then  she  said  nothing  more.  She  was  uneasy,  and  when 
afternoon  came  she  was  constantly  going  to  the  end  of  the 
piazza,  where  she  could  see  the  road  that  led  towards 
Chilton,  and  gazing  in  that  direction.  It  was  almost  night 
when  the  gray  horse  appeared,  galloping  steadily  on.  I 
waited  by  her  side  until  the  rider  entered  the  yard.  Then 
I  went  into  the  house  and  sat  down.     I  was  glad  that  I  was 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  301 

alone.  Mother  had  gone  to  Rachel  Cobb's.  I  had  not 
noticed  that  the  window  towards  the  piazza  was  open  until 
I  heard  Miss  Runciman  ask,  in  a  loud  voice: 

"  Did  you  find  them  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  get  an  answer  ?" 

Then  I  hastened  into  the  kitchen,  where  I  could  not 
hear.  But  I  had  not  been  there  ten  minutes  when  the  door 
was  flung  open  and  Mr.  Dreer  came  forward. 

"  Leonora  wishes  you  to  go  to  her,''  he  said.  He  went 
on  out  of  the  house.  I  rose  from  my  chair  immediately, 
but  I  hesitated.  "What  would  she  say  to  me?  As  if  for  a 
protection,  I  took  Vane's  letter  in  my  hand.  Then  I  joined 
Miss  Runciman,  who  was  sitting  up  now,  with  a  fur  cloak 
about  her  shoulders.  She  was  holding  this  cloak  together 
at  her  throat,  her  thin  hand  showing  strained  and  white.  She 
had  her  head  flung  back  as  she  watched  the  door  through 
which  I  came.  With  her  free  hand  she  motioned  me  to 
sit  beside  her  on  the  couch.  As  I  obeyed  she  seemed  to 
be  looking  at  me. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you  the  truth  at  the  very  first," 
she  began,  abruptly  ;  "  but  who  could  imagine  that  Vane 
would  do  such  a  thing  ?  And  what  I  did  say  to  you  about 
him  was  not  true.  There  is  really  sometimes  something 
more  than  a  moral  satisfaction  in  speaking  the  exact  truth. 
What  information  did  I  give  you  concerning  my  nephew?" 

I  answered  directly : 

"You  said  that  he  was  always  falling  in  love,  and  that 
I  must  not  think  his  manner  meant  anything." 

"Oh  yes;  I  remember  now.  But  that  was  not  so.  I 
thought,  however,  it  would  do  as  a  warning.  It  seems  it 
did  not  serve  at  all." 

I  remained  perfectly  quiet  as  I  listened.    Miss  Runciman 


302 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


had  evidently  decided  to  resume  her  usual  somewhat  cyn- 
ical manner ;  she  was  not  going  to  be  dramatic,  as  she  had 
been  in  her  surprise  of  the  day  before. 

"No,"   I  returned,  after  a  moment,  "  it  did  not  serve." 

She  turned  and  scrutinized  me.  Then  she  suddenly 
dropped  her  calm  appearance,  and  exclaimed: 

"  He  ought  to  be  shot !  I  did  not  dream  that  he  was 
such  a  rascal. "  Having  pronounced  these  words  in  a  high 
tone,  she  evidently  made  an  effort  to  appear  calm  again. 

"  Robert  went  to  Chilton,"  she. said,  "that  he  might  send 
a  cable  message  to  Bordeaux,  in  France,  and  await  the  an- 
swer.    Here  it  is." 

She  opened  the  hand  which  had  been  holding  her  cloak 
together ;  from  it  there  fell  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper,  which 
I  picked  up. 

"Read  it,"  she  commanded;  "read  it  aloud." 

"  Mrs.  Olive  Hildreth,  now  living  with  her  mother  at  Rue 
No.  17." 

I  gazed  at  the  words  after  I  had  spoken  them.  I  did 
not  know  what  they  meant ;  but  they  must  be  charged  with 
something  terrible. 

"  Olive  Hildreth  !"  I  repeated,  in  a  half-whisper.  And  I 
waited,  for  I  was  not  ready  to  ask  questions. 

"  I  will  be  as  brief  as  is  possible,"  went  on  Miss  Runci- 
man.  "  I  don't  believe  much  in  explanations.  And  you 
need  not  try  to  act  as  if  you  were  not  moved,  as  if  you  did 
not  suffer ;  spare  yourself  that  effort. 

"  It  is  nearly  five  years  since  my  nephew  married  Olive 
Jewett.  Dear  Billy,  don't  try  to  be  a  stoic,  please.  No 
matter  who  Olive  Jewett  was.  The  marriage  was  very  dis- 
pleasing to  Vane's  friends,  and  they  let  him  know  it.  He 
was  furiously  indignant,  flounced  off  to  Europe  with  his 
bride,  and  swore  he  would  never  mention  her  to  me — par- 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  303 

ticularly  to  me,  because  I  was  more  angry  with  him  than 
any  one  else.  That  was  a  kind  of  silence  that  I  could  very 
well  bear,  and  I  aided  it  by  declaring  that  I  would  not 
listen  to  any  information  concerning  Vane's  wife. 

"In  six  months  they  were  tired  of  each  other.  I  will  say 
that  Olive  Jewett  was  a  chorus  singer  to  whom  men  had 
made  love,  but  whom  nobody  had  married.  Vane  got  it 
into  his  head  that  she  was  a  lovely  creature  who  had  been 
much  traduced,  and  he  thought  he  was  in  love.  Some  of 
her  relatives  in  the  wine  business  have  a  house  in  Bordeaux, 
and  Olive  took  up  a  residence  there  with  her  mother. 
They  considered  that  Olive  had  done  very  well,  for  Vane 
made  his  wife  an  allowance  that  left  him  with  very  little 
money,  indeed. 

"  Perhaps  he  was  doing  penance  for  his  folly  in  marrying 
her  by  thus  sending  her  so  much.  Mind  you,  no  one  tells 
me  anything  of  the  Jewetts — I  mean  that  neither  Vane 
nor  his  sister  gives  me  any  information.  But  a  friend  of 
mine,  visiting  Bordeaux  this  last  spring,  wrote  to  me  that 
Olive  was  dangerously  ill  of  a  fever.  Later,  this  same 
friend,  then  in  Paris,  wrote  that  she  had  heard  that  Olive 
had  died.  That  is  the  last  I  have  known,  and  since  neither 
Vane  nor  Bashy  spoke  of  Olive,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  did 
not;  in  no  way  was  the  girl  a  pleasant  subject.  Vane's 
marriage  was  never  alluded  to  in  any  manner.  I  thought  of 
it  when  I  saw  that  Vane  was  attracted  to  you,  but  I  confess 
that  I  gave  no  serious  attention  to  the  fact.  I  was  ab- 
sorbed in  other  things.  But  I  did  give  you  a  casual  warn- 
ing. To  do  more  than  speak  casually  seemed  to  me  to 
emphasize  matters  too  much. 

"  When  you  told  me  yesterday  that  you  and  Vane  were 
married,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  doing  was  to  send 
direct  to  Bordeaux  to  the  address  my  friend  had  given  me. 


304  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

This  is  the  answer.  You  see  that  girl  did  not  die.  Such 
people  don't  die — they  live.  It  is  others  who  die.  You 
have  followed  me,  Billy  ?" 

"Yes." 

Miss  Runciman  turned  towards  me  now.  But  I  withdrew 
further  from  her. 

So  Vane  was  married.  While  he  was  writing  me  these 
letters  he  knew  that  he  had  a  wife  living.  He  knew  it ; 
and  yet  he  wrote  like  that.  And  he  knew  it  when  he  had 
pleaded  with  me  on  the  train.  I  had  old-fashioned  ideas. 
I  had  been  thinking  of  this  man  as  a  man  whom  I  had  every 
right  in  the  world  to  love. 

"  Billy,"  said  my  companion  again. 

I  did  not  make  any  response.  It  did  not  seem  to  me 
that  there  was  anything  for  me  to  say.  That  was  fortunate, 
for  I  could  not  speak.  Just  then  it  was  simply  impossible 
for  me  to  utter  a  word.  Perhaps  Miss  Runciman  perceived 
this,  for  she  kept  silence  for  a  few  moments.  At  last  she 
spoke  again. 

"  I'm  not  straitlaced.  I'm  not  particularly  strict,"  she 
began,  "  and  perhaps  I'm  not  shocked  at  things  that  would 
shock  you,  Billy;  but  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  justify  Vane. 
Only  let  me  say  this :  He  used  not  to  be  a  bad  fellow. 
He  must  be  very  much  in  love  with  you." 

I  trembled  as  I  heard  these  last  words.  I  wished  that  I 
might  see  clearly.  There  was  a  blackness  over  my  vision. 
I  passed  my  hand  across  my  eyes.  But  I  could  not  see. 
There  was  nothing  that  I  could  do  just  now.  I  recall  that 
I  wished  to  rise  and  walk  away  so  that  I  might  be  by  my- 
self, but  I  did  not  dare  to  move  lest  I  might  fall.  Yes,  all 
the  time  that  Vane  had  been  writing  those  letters  he  knew 
that  I  was  not  his  wife.  And  he  must  be  aware  that  there 
was  a  chance  of  my  being  told  of  his  former  marriage.     He 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  305 

might  say  that  he  would  risk  that  chance.  But  I  could 
not  follow  out  any  train  of  thought — if  I  began  coherently, 
my  mind  immediately  became  obscured,  and  like  the  mind 
of  an  insane  person. 

I  longed  to  get  away,  but  I  still  dared  not  rise.  What  if 
I  should  fall  down  there  at  Miss  Runciman's  feet?  What 
strange  people  there  were  in  the  world  !  My  mother  had 
dreamed  that  I  was  in  danger.  Did  she  guess  this  ?  No, 
she  could  not  by  any  possibility  guess  this.  This  was 
too  dreadful  for  her  to  think  of.  Oh,  if  I  only  could  get 
upon  my  feet  and  walk  away  to  my  own  room  !  I  hoped 
that  Miss  Runciman  would  not  speak  again  now.  But  she 
did  speak,  and  I  tried  to  listen  and  to  distinguish  what  she 
said.  The  words  had  no  sense — I  could  make  nothing;  of 
them.    And  presently  the  light  seemed  to  go  out  of  the  sky. 

When  I  could  see  and  hear  again  I  was  on  mother's  bed 
in  her  room,  and  Mr.  Dreer  was  putting  a  cold  wet  towel  on 
my  head.  His  wife  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
holding  my  hand.  She  uttered  some  kind  of  an  exclama- 
tion. At  first  I  thought  only  of  her,  and  that  for  some  rea- 
son she  had  fainted. 

"  I  suppose  you  were  a  little  faint,"  she  said,  soothingly, 
"  and  Robert  brought  you  in  here.  You'll  be  all  right  in  a 
few  minutes." 

"  Then  it  wasn't  you  who  fainted  ?"  I  asked. 

I  did  not  yet  remember  anything ;  but  before  she  could 
reply,  all  that  she  had  been  telling  me  came  back  with  burn- 
ing distinctness.  I  tried  to  sit  up,  but  I  fell  back  again.  I 
despised  myself  for  having  swooned  ;  I  had  never  had  such 
a  thing  happen  to  me  before.  I  had  had  a  contempt  for 
a  girl  who  could  be  so  weak. 

"You  may  leave  us  now,  Robert,"  I  heard  Miss  Runci- 
man say,  "but  be  within  call." 


306  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  turned  my  head  on  the  pillow.  I  longed  to  have  this 
woman  go  away.  I  wanted  to  be  alone  ;  I  must  be  alone 
soon  or  these  rushing,  fiery  thoughts  would  unbalance  my 
brain;  and  presently  mother  would  come,  and  what  should 
I  do  then  ?  She  would  have  to  be  told.  How  thankful 
I  was  that  the  neighbors  did  not  know — that  they  could 
not  talk  about  it.  Yes,  even  then  I  could  be  thankful  for 
such  a  thing  as  that.  And  there  was  Vane's  last  letter  in 
my  pocket.  As  soon  as  I  could  I  must  destroy  that  letter 
and  all  the  others.  But  no — a  dreadful  horror  came  upon 
me  at  thought  of  such  a  deed.  Part  with  those  letters  ?  I 
tried  to  sit  up  ;  I  tried  to  cry  out  something  incoherent. 
And  then  it  came  to  me  that  I  was  behaving  like  a  weak, 
hysterical  woman.  I  succeeded  in  getting  a  partial  control 
of  myself. 

When  we  were  left  alone  Miss  Runciman  moved  still 
nearer  to  me.  Mv  suffering  seemed  to  give  her  a  ileeting 
strength.  She  put  her  hand  on  my  forehead  for  a  mo- 
ment. As  she  bent  over  me  she  looked  keenly  in  my 
eyes. 

"Let  us  have  the  whole  story  now,"  she  said,  imperative- 
ly, "and  if  there  is  anything  to  be  done  I  may  see  my  way 
clearly  to  do  it.     Tell  me  all." 

So  I  began,  and  I  did  tell  her  all  hurriedly,  but  without 
a  thought  of  keeping  anything  back.  When  I  had  finished 
she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  I  have  heard  of  worse  things,"  she  said. 

"  Worse  things!"  I  cried,  "and  I  love  him  !  I  suppose  I 
love  him  !" 

I  was  surprised  at  the  relief  it  was  to  me  to  be  able  to 
say  those  words  aloud  to  my  companion.  She  smiled  ;  then 
she  kissed  my  cheek. 

••  If  you  were  a  perfectly  well-regulated  young  person." 


THE    WHOLE    STORY  307 

she  responded,  ''your  love  would  have  died  the  moment 
you  learned  that  Vane  had  deceived  you."' 

I  moaned  a  little  as  I  heard  her  speak  thus,  and  I  found 
that  it  was  also  a  relief  to  moan.  I  knew  perfectly  that  I 
had  never  been  a  well-regulated  young  person.  But  I  was 
not  going  to  lie  there  and  make  my  moans.  I  sat  up  reso- 
lutely.    I  pushed  back  the  hair  from  my  face. 

■•  Wait  one  moment,"  said  Miss  Runciman,  command- 
ingly. 

I  turned  towards  her.     What  more  was  there  to  say  ? 

"  Give  me  your  word  about  one  thing,"  she  said.  "  Prom- 
ise me  that  you  will  go  to  Paris  in  the  early  fall  and  go  on 
with  your  studies.  Don't  you  see  that  the  hand  of  Provi- 
dence, if  there  is  a  Providence,  in  all  this  is  clearing  the 
way  for  you  ?  You  go  unhampered.  That  hurried  mar- 
riage on  the  train  will  soon  seem  even  more  unreal  than  a 
dream.     Come,  give  me  your  word/' 

Her  manner,  her  tone,  stirred  me  even  more  than  her 
words.     After  an  instant's  hesitation  I  replied: 

;' On  one  condition." 

"  Name  it." 

"  That  you  let  me  repay  the  money  I  shall  use." 

"  Oh  yes,  if  I  live." 

"Then  I  will  go." 

I  spoke  firmly.  A  spark  of  enthusiasm  was  in  my  soul. 
But  the  next  moment  I  thought  it  died.  Before  my  com- 
panion could  speak  again  I  hurried  out  of  the  room.  As  I 
went  up  the  stairs  to  my  own  chamber  I  heard  footsteps 
near  the  outer  door  and  the  voice  of  Myra  Foster  saying : 

"  I  wonder  where  they  all  be  ?" 

Mother  had  come  home,  and  Myra  had  come  with  her. 

I  fiercely  locked  my  door.  It  would  not  be  safe  for  that 
girl  to  come  near  me  now.     How  could  Bidwell  Blake  care 


308  IN    THE    FIRST   PERSON 

for  a  girl  like  that  ?  The  next  instant  I  had  forgotten  her. 
I  was  gathering  up  Vane's  letters.  As  my  eyes  caught  his 
written  words  they  seemed  different  to  me — remote  in  some 
strange  way.  It  was  as  if  we  had  suddenly  been  pushed 
apart.  I  was  suffering  and  bewildered.  Where  was  my 
Vane  ?      My  Vane  could  not  have  done  this  thing ! 


XVIII 
TO    LEARX    TO    SING 

The  summer  went  on  just  as  sweetly  after  this  day  as 
though  it  were  assisting  at  some  gay  nuptials. 

Mother  and  I  were  busy  at  the  housework.  I  learned  to 
milk,  and  I  sent  away  the  boy  whom  Bidwell  had  engaged 
to  do  our  chores.  I  was  young  and  strong,  and  I  could  do 
more  work  than  I  had  been  doing.  Mother  expostulated. 
But  I  would  not  listen  to  her.  I  labored  from  morning 
until  night,  and  the  moment  I  laid  myself  on  the  bed  I 
dropped  into  a  dreamless  sleep.  But  between  one  and 
two  o'clock,  always  at  the  same  time,  I  woke  with  a  start, 
and  then  I  lay  staring  at  the  open  window  at  the  foot  of 
my  bed.  Then  I  recalled  every  word  that  Vane  had  said 
to  me  or  written  to  me,  every  look,  every  inflection  of  voice, 
until  I  thought  I  came  near  going  mad.  But,  thank  Heaven, 
God  has  made  his  creatures  able  to  bear  a  great  deal  with- 
out going  mad.  Sometimes  I  did  not  go  to  sleep  again  ; 
sometimes  I  slept  uneasily  for  an  hour.  I  knew  that  Miss 
Runciman  watched  me.  Once  she  called  me  "brave  girl," 
and  once  she  said,  "  It  will  pass  ;  everything  passes."  But 
I  made  no  reply  to  either  of  these  remarks.  I  had  noth- 
ing to  say.  Lotus  followed  me  about,  looking  wistfully  at 
my  face. 

I  had  immediately  written  to  Vane.     First,  I  wrote  a  long 


3io 


IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 


epistle,  saying  many  things.     That  I  promptly  destroyed. 
Then  I  wrote  this  : 

"  Miss  Runciman  has  just  told  me  of  your  marriage  to  Olive  Jewett. 
Please  do  not  write  to  me  again." 

This  I  sent ;  and  I  tried  to  forget  the  date  of  my  sending 
it,  so  that  I  might  not  think  of  the  time  when  he  would 
probably  receive  it.  Even  then  I  hated  to  hurt  him.  And, 
like  many  other  women  in  similar  circumstances,  I  believed 
that  he  loved  me.  He  had  done  an  evil  thing,  but  he  loved 
me.  He  had  wronged  and  deceived  me,  but  he  loved  me. 
You  will  perceive  that  I  was  no  more  reasonable  in  regard 
to  him  than  the  ordinary  girl  would  have  been.  And,  in- 
deed, I  was  but  an  ordinary  girl,  and  could  not  be  expected 
to  act  differently  from  one. 

And  I  hope  you  do  not  greatly  wonder  that,  now  that  it 
was  all  over,  and  I  was  not  Vane's  wife  and  never  should 
be,  I  did  not  tell  my  mother  that  I  had  once  believed  I  was 
his  wife.  I  did  tell  her  that  my  friendship  for  Mr.  Hildreth 
was  at  an  end.  And  I  added  that  some  day  she  should 
know  all.  She  acquiesced,  and  forbore  to  question  me.  I 
never  knew  until  long  afterwards  how  she  had  read  me  in 
the  silence  she  preserved  during  the  summer. 

It  was  not  quite  a  month  since  I  had  sent  my  note  to 
Vane.  Of  course,  his  letters  had  kept  coming — those  he 
had  written  before  my  word  had  reached  him.  But  I  did 
not  open  these ;  I  put  them  with  the  others.  It  was  now 
fall,  the  early,  hot  days  of  September,  when,  if  it  be  a  "dry 
time,"  as  it  often  is  at  that  season,  the  earth  seems  to  be 
about  to  break  into  flames  and  consume  like  stubble. 

Miss  Runciman  was  still  maintaining  her  more  comforta- 
ble state.  The  heat  was  like  a  balm  to  her.  At  the  com- 
ing of  the  earliest  frosts  she  and  her  husband  were  going 


TO    LEARN    TO    SING  311 

South.  They  would  follow  the  sun.  She  might,  by  doing 
that,  live  a  few  months  longer,  she  said.  It  was  a  foolish 
thing  to  make  a  fight  for  a  few  months,  but  it  was  human 
nature.  She  hurried  our  preparations  for  leaving  home. 
Once  she  caught  my  skirt  as  I  was  passing  her  couch. 

"  You  will  learn  to  sing  ?"  she  exclaimed,  with  her  old  im- 
periousness  ;  "  you  are  in  earnest  ?" 

I  looked  full  in  her  eyes,  my  heart  swelling  as  I  an- 
swered : 

"  I  am  in  earnest." 

She  sank  back  on  the  pillows. 

"I  see  I  can  trust  you,"  she  returned.  "Well,  after  all, 
the  world  will  owe  a  great  singer  to  my  deed." 

I  went  out  of  the  house.  I  hurried,  for  I  would  try  my 
voice.  For  the  first  time  in  weeks  I  would  sing  the  scale. 
My  heart  began  to  beat  at  the  mere  thought  of  doing 
this. 

I  ran  down  the  river  patch,  as  the  nearest  way  of  escap- 
ing from  interruption.  I  reached  the  bars,  where  I  paused 
to  recover  my  breath.  Xot  since  that  marriage  ceremony 
on  the  train  had  I  been  so  stung;  with  the  longing  to  sing;. 
That  longing  had  lain  partially  dormant,  but  ready  to  be 
roused,  and  Miss  Runciman  had  roused  it.  I  began  the 
scale.  Half-way  through  it  Lotus,  who  had  come  with  me, 
made  a  dash  in  among  the  bushes.  As  he  did  so  Vane 
parted  the  branches  and  came  towards  me. 

I  gave  him  one  look  that  took  in  his  haggard  eyes,  his 
pallor,  his  wretchedness ;  then  I  turned.  I  think  I  began 
to  run.  My  one  dominant  feeling  was  that  I  dared  not  see 
him.  In  a  moment  my  arm  was  caught.  I  vaguely  saw 
the  dog  leaping  and  fawning  upon  his  master,  who  did  not 
notice  him. 

"  Are  you  running  away  from  me  ?"  asked  Vane,  savagely. 


312  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

I  stood,  on  the  instant,  perfectly  still. 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

He  held  my  arm  yet  more  closely. 

"  Do  you  dislike  me  so  much  ?" 

I  made  no  answer.  He  did  not  repeat  the  question.  He 
had  dropped  my  arm  and  was  looking  intently  at  me.  This 
I  knew,  though  my  eyes  were  lowered. 

"  It  was  because  I  loved  you  so,"  he  said,  suddenly. 

Now  I  raised  my  eyes. 

"  You  deceived  me  because  you  loved  me  so  ?"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  I  was  afraid,  if  I  told  you,  you  would  turn  from 
me ;  and  I  hoped  to  arrange  about  a  divorce — and  there 
was  Maverick — and  it  all  came  upon  me  in  the  train  that  if 
you  could  only  think  you  were  my  wife  I  should  feel  secure, 
and  I  could  arrange  everything — everything — and  I  should 
not  lose  you — my  darling  !" 

Vane's  voice  was  pitched  low,  and  it  thrilled  upon  the 
hot  air  almost  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  the  beautiful  day  itself. 
And  I  knew  that  Vane's  very  soul  was  in  his  voice  and 
words.  But  what  had  come  over  me  ?  I  was  excited,  but 
I  was  in  a  way  unmoved.  There  was  no  answering,  unrea- 
soning thrill  in  my  heart.  And  I  was  keenly  thankful  for 
that — yes,  I  could  have  gone  on  my  knees  then  and  there 
and  thanked  God  that  Vane's  presence  was  not  to  me  what 
I  had  thought  it  would  be,  not  what  I  remembered  it,  not 
what  his  letters  had  been.  Why?  Ah,  yes,  why  had  the 
strange  glamour  gone  from  my  eyes  ?  Not  because  he  had 
deceived  me,  surely,  for  they  tell  me  a  woman  will  love  the 
man  who  insults,  deceives,  and  abuses  her.  Love  goes  as 
mysteriously  as  it  comes.  Nay,  but  "  it  was  not  love  that 
went."  A  matter  of  glamour,  of  the  senses,  of  propinquity, 
of  the  subtle  power  of  the  singing  voice,  of  the  romance  of 
youth  and  ignorance,  of  a  thousand  mysteries,  but  not  of 


TO    LEARN    TO    SING 


3*3 


love — oh,  not  of  love !  though  love  may  hold  in  it  many 
things  as  mere  inferior  attributes. 

I  stood  there  agitated,  sorrowful,  but  cold.  There  was 
no  ardor,  no  passion,  in  my  heart ;  but  there  were  pity  and 
tenderness.  I  could  not  understand.  I  had  expected  a 
great  battle  with  myself  if  I  should  meet  Vane.  As  for 
Vane,  he  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  silent  and  gazing  at 
me.  At  length  I  lifted  my  eyes  and  met  his.  He  burst 
into  a  loud  laugh,  that  sounded  horribly  in  the  stillness. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  would  tire  of  me  so 
soon,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  I'm  not  tired  of  you,"  I  answered. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Why,  who  has  taken  your  fancy  now  ?" 

I  shrank  away ;  his  words  seemed  vulgar  to  me. 

"  Xo  one." 

A  spasm  of  suffering  crossed  Vane's  face.  I  suddenly 
leaned  forward  and  took  his  hand. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  understand  it,"  I  cried.  "  I  thought  I  loved 
you,  but,  now  I  see  you,  something  is  different.  I  know 
you  deceived  me,  and  I  supposed  I  must  fight  against  my 
love,  because  I  had  no  right  to  love  you ;  but  now  I  don't 
have  to  fight.  Oh,  how  hard-hearted  and  strange  you  must 
think  me !" 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  the  anguish  in  Vane's  face.  I  had 
thought  that  he  was  the  wretch,  and  now  here  I  was  feel- 
ing as  if  I  were  the  sinning  one  instead  of  Vane. 

"  How  strange  you  must  think  me !"  I  repeated,  feebly. 
"Indeed  I  don't  understand.  But,  Vane,  our  love  was 
hopeless,  you  see,  and  you  were  wrong — so  wrong !" 

"  I  tell  you  I  could  have  arranged  everything.  I  would 
have  moved  the  world  to  be  free  of  that  woman,"  he  began, 


314  IN    THE    FIRST    PERSON 

hurriedly,  "  but  I  know  I  was  wrong.  However,  there  is 
no  need  of  explanations." 

He  drew  his  hand  from  mine,  and  tried  to  hold  himself 
erect.  He  turned  and  gazed  off  towards  the  falls.  He  was 
ashen  in  color,  and  his  eyes  looked  hot  and  stained. 

"You're  sure  there  is  no  one  else?'' 

"  I'm  sure." 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat.  Then 
he  withdrew  one  hand  and  grasped  the  post  of  the  fence. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  you  have  the  artistic  temperament," 
he  said. 

I  could  not  bear  to  hear  him  try  to  speak  lightly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Only  that  you  are  fickle,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  Well,  I 
think  I'll  go  back  to  England  again.  Miss  Armstrong,  you 
can  regard  our  acquaintance  as  a  slight  episode  in  your  life. 
Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  just  audibly  from  me. 

Vane  lifted  his  hat  with  a  slow  movement.  He  walked 
away.  His  brindled  dog  followed  him  hesitatingly  a  few 
yards,  paused,  whined  under  his  breath,  then  came  back  to 
me. 

I  folded  my  arms  on  the  fence  rail,  put  my  head  down 
on  them,  and  began  to  cry  as  if  my  heart  were  broken. 

In  two  weeks  from  that  time  Miss  Runciman  and  her 
husband  had  gone  South ;  they  took  Bathsheba  with  them. 
Mother  and  I  were  on  board  a  Cunard  steamer.  I  was 
going  to  learn  to  sing.  At  the  very  last  moment  I  changed 
my  mind  about  Lotus,  and  did  not  leave  him  with  Bidwell, 
who  had  kindly  offered  to  care  for  him.  The  dog  was  on 
board  the  boat.     I  wanted  him. 

Mother  was  holding  my  arm  closely,  and  we  were  looking 


TO    LEARX    TO    SING  315 

at  the  wharf.  The  steamer  had  just  started.  Bidwell  was 
waving  his  hat  to  us.  A  carriage  came  dashing  over  the 
planks— too  late. 

We  saw  Vane  Hildreth  jump  from  the  carriage. 

"  Oh,  I'm  glad  he  can't  get  aboard !"  whispered  mother. 

She  clasped  my  arm  more  tightly.  "  Wilhelminy,"  she 
said,  with  solemn  earnestness.  "  I  do  hope,  if  you  should 
ever  see  him,  that  you  won't  think  you  are  in  love  with  him 
again." 


THE    END 


